The Curve Ball
by Antonia Caenis
Summary: Two households, both alike in dignity and service to their country, have historic enmity broken by a curve-ball that changes their lives forever and then face new heartbreak when civil blood spilled by uncivil hands makes all feel unclean. Canon. What Kudos own is theirs, the rest is my own.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is a story in two parts. The first plot bunny came to me several years ago during two particularly long drives so blame white-line-fever for it. The second was a few years later, after the movie. And I apologise to Shakespeare for the precis!

1\. London, Friday 8 November 2013.

 _London Marriott Hotel, West India Quay, Canary Wharf, East London. Mid-evening._

"Are you bored too?" A child's voice snapped him out of his reverie and he glanced down to see a young girl – six or seven at most, he thought – gazing at him solemnly from bright blue eyes. Her cloud of flyaway, very dark, hair was escaping from its jewelled clips and she had a slight smear of chocolate on one cheek; without giving the man a chance to respond she held out her hand and added formally, "Hello, my name's Rosie. Do you mind if I sit next to you?"

He took the proffered hand and shook, gently, replying gravely and repressing for the moment his desire to smile at this serious little imp,

"Hello, Rosie. My name is Ilya and of course you may sit here." As she clambered onto the ornate velvet chair next to his he answered her original question. "No, I am not bored, just resting. I thought little girls enjoyed weddings?"

Rosie flopped into her seat and gave an exaggerated sigh, still gazing at him out of those blue eyes. There was something about her that reminded him of someone although he wasn't sure who.

"I did but it was _hours_ ago!" He had to smile at her theatrical exclamation. It hadn't been _hours_ , exactly, only a couple but no doubt it felt like forever to a child. To his surprise she dimpled back at him. "Now it's all talking and even the cake is gone!"

"Now _that_ is a tragedy, I agree. It was a particularly delicious cake." They smiled at each other before he added, "Did you enjoy being the flower girl?"

The child nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh _yes!_ I've never been a flower girl before, it was fun. And I love my dress, I think I'll wear it forever!"

Like the rest of the bridal party she was arrayed in shades of green, silver and oyster grey. Hope was dressed in a form-fitting 1950's style suit in a slightly stiff, sage-green silk that had a collar, embroidered in silver and crystals, which framed her shoulders and décolletage like an opening lily and a knee-length pencil skirt that showed off her legs, with a silver-grey pillbox hat and net, pewter shoes and silver vintage jewellery from the same era; Erin, standing support for the bride, was in an elegantly flowing oyster grey chiffon and sage green silk shift, also with delicate silver accessories while this little one was in what amounted to a forest-green calf-length tulle ballet dress with a grey satin bodice embroidered in metallic silver and studded with glittering jewels of multiple shades of green that matched the ones in her hair. _That's who the child must be: Erin Watts' daughter,_ he thought to himself, realising why she looked vaguely familiar. She was smoothing down her net skirt, admiring the diamante drops on the hem and her glittering silver ballet pumps when she looked at him, slightly sideways, and said,

"You talk funny."

He laughed gently, delighted by her bluntness and honesty.

"That is because I come from a long way away."

The blue eyes turned serious.

"How far? As far away as Paris? I've been to Paris, when Mum and Dee took me to Disneyland."

 _Definitely Erin's daughter, then._

"You are a very lucky young lady! No, I am from much further away than Paris. My home is Moscow, in Russia."

Her gaze suddenly widened and she stared at him intently. There was suppressed excitement in her voice as she asked,

"Russia? Where all the famous ballerinas are from? I do ballet and I love it! Do you know any ballerinas?"

"You look like a ballerina in that dress!" Her eyes glowed and her smile came out again as radiant as sunshine as he continued on. "My company helps some of them study so yes, I do know one or two of the current ones but those I really knew were a long time ago and you probably would not know their names."

"I can guess," she replied, looking animated at the thought of such a game.

"Very well, as long as you do not ask me if I knew Pavlova or Nijinsky."

She sighed, a forty year old in a seven year old's body.

"Don't be silly, no-one's _that_ old!"

Their little game kept them amused for a good ten minutes or so and Ilya was quietly surprised at the girl's encyclopaedic knowledge of Russian and Soviet ballerinas and ballets from the past hundred years or so, or he was until he remembered Sasha, at a slightly younger age, and his obsession with dinosaurs that was so deep he could give chapter and verse on any of the major ones and quite a few of the lesser ones you cared to name. The memory of the happy, carefree little boy that his son had been caused his enjoyment in the game to fade a little but his smile didn't falter as his tiny companion continued her enthusiastic patter. A movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention just as someone came to a halt in front of them and he looked up to see a woman not much younger than himself standing there, looking apologetic but who spoke slightly sharply to the child.

"Rosie, what are you doing? Stop annoying the gentleman, now." The woman turned to him and added in a more mollifying tone, "I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, she's such a chatterbox. I hope she hasn't annoyed you too much."

"No, on the contrary, we have been very much enjoying discussing ballet." He stood, unfolding his long frame to tower over the new arrival, and held out his hand. "Ilya."

"Jean." They shook, taking the opportunity to surreptitiously measure each other up. He could see the resemblance to her grand-daughter in Jean's dark, fine, fly-away hair, fair skin and grey-blue eyes but she was dressed in a much more understated way, in tailored navy trousers and a delicate lace top a shade or two lighter that was scattered with tiny, glittering crystals. A little taller than her daughter she had a wary, intelligent expression that intrigued him, not least because most people couldn't hide their subliminal fear when they first met him. The persona he had developed over his years in the GRU and KGB had never left him, had in fact proven more useful than not in business and politics in the years since although there were times when he regretted being so effective at intimidation, but the fact that there was no fear – natural wariness but nothing else – in the face in front of him was a refreshing change.

Jean had been talking to the bride and groom for a little while, secure in the knowledge that her charge was with her mother for the moment, when she glanced at her watch and realised what the time was. Excusing herself she had turned towards Erin, who despite being in conversation with a rather courtly couple by the names of Malcolm and Angharad seemed to be more interested in glaring at another woman – around her own age, blonde, bubbly, who had been introduced to Jean as Beth someone – who was currently involved in an animated conversation with Dimitri but who was also not accompanied by Rosie. Dread swept through her as her eyes frantically scanned the room, followed rapidly by a sigh of relief as she spotted the errant child seated on a chair towards the back of the room and, from all appearances, having an in-depth discussion with an older man that Jean had spotted earlier. He was a bit hard to miss: very tall, slim, dark hair with a strong face, she had noticed him a couple of times but, like most of the others here, she had no idea who he was. Now was her chance to find out.

Up close he was even taller and elegantly, although slightly severely, clothed in what she suspected was top-shelf Italian design but it was the accent that caught her attention. The last thing she would have expected in this particular gathering of wall-to-wall Western spies was a Russian. Which immediately begged the question… The voice was a deep baritone, cultured and apparently fluent in the language that was not his own but it was the eyes that caught her attention: nominally hazel, in reality and close up they were a textured dark brown flecked with enough scintillating gold to make them appear almost like tiger's eye, the shifting colours hypnotic.

"Well, thank you for keeping her out of mischief."

"My pleasure. It made a change from the normal type of conversation at events such as these." He gestured towards the seats. "Please, join us for a moment."

 _Well, it wouldn't hurt the child if they stayed for another few minutes. She was interested in finding out more about this mysterious foreigner._ Smiling at his courtly manner she nodded acquiescence and took a seat on the other side of her grand-daughter, asking,

"Bride or groom?" as she made herself comfortable.

"Groom. Yourself?"

 _Hmm. A Russian friend of a British master spy from that era? Curiouser and curiouser…_

"Neither, really, yet a bit of both. I'm here by accident, or default: my daughter Erin – I don't know if you've met her tonight – is supporting the bride and this one managed to inveigle her way into being flower girl. The baby-sitter came down with the flu so I was only attending the wedding so I could take Rosie home afterwards but the happy couple invited us to join the party so here we are." Jean thought something may have crossed behind the man's eyes at the mention of Erin but she couldn't imagine what. "Have you known Harry long?"

The smile was slightly ironic, although the words weren't.

"Yes. For far longer than either of us would care to admit." _Surely he had to be KGB? Or ex-KGB._ "Although I, too, am here by accident. I only arrived from Moscow this morning and called Harry to organise a time to catch up. He told me something was on and asked me to meet him: you can imagine my surprise when I walked into a wedding!"

"I saw you talking to my step-Dad before. Do you know him, too?" Rosie piped up, eager to continue to be part of the conversation between her granny and this grandpa who knew so much about her favourite subject. She wished, just for a moment, that she had a grandpa, especially one who was friends with ballerinas!

"I know him only a little, Rosie, but we had a good talk tonight because we were both soldiers once and we both served in the same country, although many, many years apart."

"Oh." The girl clearly wasn't impressed. Jean smiled at her and straightened up one of the bejewelled hair clips which was coming awry.

"Where was that, Ilya? Not Iraq?"

He shook his head.

"No. Afghanistan."

They continued to talk for longer than Jean had intended, diverted at least in part by Rosie's ballet obsession onto discussion of the last hundred years of Russian history, an area of interest to both the adults, while avoiding any more talk of wars long gone, especially as Jean suspected the man had probably served in the same way as her son-in-law: in intelligence, under deep cover. The child herself gradually dropped out of the conversation, weary and almost falling asleep against the woman's shoulder. They were still chatting, animatedly, ten minutes later when a shadow fell over them. Erin. The voice was light yet rimed in ice.

"Minister."

On the far side of the room Hope and Harry were enjoying a moment of quietness together, one of the few they had managed all day. Their house was full of guests – Hope's sisters, their husbands and the occasional niece or nephew, who had elected themselves to assist the bride on the day and were otherwise tasked with looking after the house for the next week of the honeymoon – so Harry had decamped to Malcolm's place the night before for a very quiet but extremely elegant and classy buck's night (of sorts) with he and Angharad while the girls had a big night in that was significantly less elegant or classy. Today they hadn't seen each other until they had arrived at the venue in the late afternoon for the short ceremony and after that it had been straight into the festivities so by now they were quite glad for the break after the first of the small group of guests had left.

Harry had slid his arms around her waist, enjoying the sensual feel of the silk fabric and its inherent promise for later in the night, kissed her gently and said, with only the barest of twinkles in his eyes,

"Hello, Lady Pearce."

Her sea-green eyes widened for a moment then crinkled as she barely suppressed a snort of laughter.

"Oh no, I'd forgotten about that part of it! Anyone who knows me knows I'm no lady!" She kissed him back and added with a sigh, in a perfect cut-glass accent, "The things one has to do to keep officialdom happy: one would never have presumed one would end up with a title when one was growing up in the back-blocks of the colonies…" To an extent her words were true; although they had intended to tie the knot eventually, a sequence of hassles and hold-ups with Hope's work visa had persuaded them, after a run-in with a particularly recalcitrant member of the Civil Service whom Harry would have quite cheerfully fitted with a pair of concrete boots, to just get on with it and do the deed. And now here they were.

Her maid-of-honour caught Hope's eye over Harry's shoulder: the set of the other woman's back and she swiftly crossed the room spoke of a sudden, extreme tension. Following her progress, Hope thought she understood the reason and murmured in her new husband's ear, a hint of amusement in her voice,

"This might get interesting!"

From their distance they couldn't hear what was said but it was blindingly obvious that Erin wasn't impressed that her mother was conversing with Ilya Gavrik and even less impressed that Rosie was part of that conversation. Strangely, neither of her elders appeared to be put out by what was, Harry guessed, the sharp edge of Erin's tongue being politely applied to them; Jean was doing her best to listen seriously but was failing, judging by the sparkle in her eyes while Ilya had his inscrutable face on. But not so inscrutable to the Englishman: knowing Ilya the way he did now, Harry could tell that the Russian was equally as amused as his companion by whatever was being said.

The conversation was suddenly over as Ilya and Jean stood, with Rosie looking mutinous between them. She said something which was instantly cut off by her mother; Dimitri, who had been hanging back from the interaction came forward to take the girl, saying something into his partner's ear at the same time, which earned him a displeased glance. Within moments the family group were moving towards the door, Dimitri throwing a farewell wave to the bridal couple – they had said their verbal good-byes a few minutes ago – while Rosie suddenly broke free, ran back to Ilya, solemnly shook his hand and then scampered back before Erin had a chance to say anything. Jean threw what looked suspiciously like a wink at the Russian and they were gone.

Within half an hour the last of the guests were leaving so the newlyweds, who were staying at the small, exclusive, boutique hotel for the night before flying out to Sardinia in the morning, walked out the front to see them off. Hope's family hailed a taxi, as did the last of his former army buddies, which was quickly followed by Ilya's driver turning up in his sleek, anonymous black Lexus. Fifty metres down the street, in another anonymous vehicle that was sparkling with the light drizzle that had been falling on and off for the last few hours after a mostly dry and sunny day, two men watched the Minister shake Harry's hand, exchange kisses on the cheek with Hope and then disappear into the back of his vehicle with a final wave from the couple. The latter turned to go back inside as Ilya's car purred down the street into the dark dampness of the night; the two observers – middle aged, unremarkable, as anonymous as their car – looked at each other and the younger one fired up the engine as the older one murmured,

"Well, who'd've thought that." The surprise, along with a dawning realisation, was evident in his voice and the other man responded sharply,

"What?"

"Our friend. The function he just attended was the wedding option, not the business dinner."

"Are you sure?" They were driving calmly along the almost empty streets, just keeping the Lexus in sight as they followed the Russian Minister back to his accommodation at Buckingham Gate.

"Positive, once I saw that pair. Don't tell me you didn't recognise them?"

"I was looking at the target, not the rest of them." He whistled, long and low. "So the rumours are true, huh? He _is_ now a friend of Harry Pearce. That will make our job more difficult."

"It sure looked like it. We never got that bastard for what he did so maybe we take down his new buddy in revenge."

"Don't let the old girl hear you say that."

The other laughed derisively.

"I'm not scared of her—"

"That's all irrelevant," the man in the darkened passenger seat said. "The job goes ahead. We just have to be more careful, that's all."

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _I did meet a nice chap this evening. A Russian politician, of all things, called Ilya. Rosie had latched onto him and I went over to rescue both of them and got talking to him, as he was on his own and looking a bit lonely. Turns out he knows the groom and was in town coincidentally so ended up at the wedding as an extra, as I did. We had a good long chat about all sorts of things, including global politics and history as well as theatre and literature, while Rosie went to sleep between us. Erin eventually came and got her and didn't look too pleased but managed to stay polite, at least until we left. Then she made it clear that she didn't think much of him and would rather I hadn't spoken to him until I pointed out it was Rosie who had taken to him, and vice versa. She simmered down after that and said no more after finishing off with a comment about it didn't matter because it was only once. Didn't have the heart to tell her we're meeting up for coffee tomorrow afternoon!_

Erin's Diary:

Mum was talking to Ilya Gavrik tonight. Of all the people there she had to end up with him and seems to have enjoyed it, too. It was all Rosie's fault, apparently: she must have wandered over and bailed him up while I was over talking to Malcolm and Angharad and avoiding Beth Bailey. Hopefully that was all there was to it, anyway. I've told Mum to avoid him. Dimitri was absolutely no help: all he said was I was being a bit harsh and the man's actually quite interesting when you get to talk to him. I gather the pair of them spent most of the 45 minutes they were talking discussing their time in Afghanistan – Ilya in the late 70s with the Soviet Army and Dimitri, of course, having a couple of tours over there with the SBS rather more recently. Typical men.

Ilya's Journal:

The evening was surprisingly pleasant. Despite our odd relationship Harry and I get on better with every passing year and I have also developed a rapport with his new wife. Young Levendis and I also had a long discussion about our times in Afghanistan: much has changed but much has also remained the same. The evening was drawing to a close and I was considering taking my leave when a young girl decided to join me, the daughter of Erin Watts. She was bored and curious and is a bright, engaging child so we kept each other entertained until her grandmother came to rescue her. The child clearly takes after the grandmother, who is also very bright and surprisingly accepting of an old enemy. We were just getting into a very interesting conversation when Miss Watts came over and broke up the party, distinctly but non-verbally warning me off her family. It was too late: we had already agreed to meet for coffee tomorrow and continue our talk.


	2. Chapter 2

2\. London. Saturday 9 November 2013.

 _Kaspgaz Oil Headquarters, Level 26, The Shard, 32 London Bridge Street. 13:25_

Ilya checked his watch – an understated Patek Philippe that he'd had for years – for what seemed like the thousandth time in this meeting. The day had been long enough already before this one, the last of the day, on the important but dry as dust subject of their international balance sheet. Most of the time now he could avoid such discussions, leaving it to his management team, but every quarter he, as the majority owner of the corporation, had to put in an appearance whether he felt like it or not. Having the presentation scheduled after lunch, as it was today, didn't help as almost everyone, including himself, was feeling at least a little somnolent after the meal, even though he had been his usual abstemious self and had kept away from the wine.

In the early days he had positively enjoyed all of this as he had built his company up from nothing to the international giant it now was and for the past two and a half years he had buried himself in the day-to-day minutiae to drown any thoughts of what had happened that day in the dank, cold-war bunker on the Thames Estuary, along with the revelations that had gone with the events, but today he was unsettled, his thoughts elsewhere. The view outside the meeting room window wasn't helping: it was a rare day of Autumnal sunshine, the golden light limning the ancient buildings far below his glass-shelled eyrie in brightness under a sky of an exquisite cerulean that was only marked by gossamer silver traces of aircraft con-trails in the stratosphere. The appointment that was coming up soon was the cause of his distraction. For the first time since his former wife's perfidy he was actually looking forward to catching up with someone on a social basis.

After his return to Moscow with the remnants of his shattered family – one dead, one injured and temporarily insane – his social life had disappeared. Beforehand there had been an almost continuous series of brunches, lunches, dinners, banquets and other events to fill their calendar but afterwards no-one but his very oldest friends would touch him. He hadn't noticed at first, grateful for the isolation from almost everyone apart from his brothers and their families and by the time he did notice he no longer cared. Elena Platonovna had been the driving force behind most of their social activities for political reasons that he how knew and despised so most of those involved had been her friends, not his, and he had been happy to see the back of them. Most of them were too busy covering their own arses, where they could, anxious to distance themselves from her and from RussiaFirst; of them, he knew at least some of them had probably worked out exactly how she had died, not swallowing the concocted story of her suicide from shame, and were now too scared to come anywhere near him. That suited him right down to the ground…

His surprise had been total when he had arrived at the up-market hotel the previous late afternoon to find himself a wedding guest and he had been almost tempted to demur but good manners, his friendship with the bridal couple and curiosity had made him stay and the evening had been entirely enjoyable. Then Rosie had turned up, followed by Jean, and he had realised afterwards, on the way home, that he had relaxed more in their company than any others. _The innocence of true ignorance_ , he supposed: the child accepting him at face value and the grandmother doing much the same, despite probably having worked out at least part of the truth of his past. It would be interesting to see how it went today, if he ever got there.

 _District Line, 13:50_

Jean left the house she shared with her family and made her way to Stamford Road Tube station, where she had to wait a few minutes before the singing rails preceding the train's arrival drew her attention from the couple of sparrows pecking at crumbs underneath a nearby bench. Taking a seat in a half-empty carriage she considered what she had learned earlier in the morning. Realising Erin was highly unlikely to answer any questions – all she had said the night before was that the Russian was bad news, very dangerous and should be steered clear of – and not wishing to tip her off to this afternoon's assignation, Jean had finally succumbed to temptation and asked Dr Google about the mysterious Russian Minister.

Ilya Andreivitch Gavrik, long-established oligarch, Minister for International Development, personally appointed by Dmitry Medvedev (although believed to be at Putin's behest) to the post in early 2010, to be precise. There was plenty of generic stuff out there, particularly about his business interests (Kaspgaz Oil was the major but far from the only company the man owned, he had interests not only in traditional energy but also alternative energy sources, telecommunications, unusual mining commodities, pharmaceuticals and military high-tech, mostly drones and other automated weapons systems) and philanthropy (to her surprise he and his company seemed to be big in supporting both the arts, particularly dance, and scientific research) but curiously little about the man himself. Ex-Soviet Army veteran of Afghanistan (she already knew that) where he had earned a Hero of the Soviet Union award, among his chest-full of other medals (she hadn't known that), occasional member of the politburo, long-time personal friend of President Putin, rumoured to have spent many years as a senior officer with Soviet intelligence although there was nothing to substantiate the rumours (surprise, surprise!) and some thought he still was part of that particular machine, he had only come to the attention of the West since the turn of the millennium when Kaspgaz had come out of nowhere and started making very savvy business deals over more than half the planet. He was currently believed to have a personal net worth of somewhere upwards of £400 million; including the privately owned corporation in the equation bumped it up to four or five times that. There had been a wife and a son: the wife had died some time ago, she had found nothing more than a name (Aleksandr) for the son.

The deceleration of the train and it's shuddering, slightly squealing halt at South Kensington Station broke the trend of her thoughts. None of it mattered, anyway, because this was likely to be a one-off, she was aware of that: mega-rich international businessman and part-time lecturer in the psychology of education weren't jobs that were likely to be of much interest to each other for long. She would just enjoy the conversation and leave it at that.

 _Victoria & Albert Museum, 14:20_

Jean moved at a fair clip through the corridors of the hallowed museum towards the inner courtyard and café, glancing at her watch as she went. Her original plan had been to attend the Treasures of the Royal Courts exhibition and she had suggested meeting Ilya at the café afterwards but the first part of the plan hadn't worked out: Erin had been called in to work unexpectedly and Dimitri had already had a meeting with an asset somewhere so Jean had stayed home to look after Rosie. Dimitri had returned at lunch time but Erin still hadn't come back by the time Jean had got away, now leaving her with no time to go through the show: it was a pity but not a disaster, the exhibit was still on for another week or so and if he didn't front, as she expected, she might just go through it this afternoon anyway. At least she wasn't late.

The lunchtime crowds had thinned by now in the interior of the café although the brief interval of warmth in what was otherwise turning into a damp, cold month meant that there were still a lot of people in the courtyard. Having quickly glanced into all the internal rooms and not spotted him, she went outside to take in some of the unexpected sunshine and was stunned to see a tall, immaculately dressed figure standing by the oval pool. _God, he was here already…_

He heard her approach and turned with a smile as she breathed apologetically and slightly anxiously,

"Ilya, I hope you haven't been here long?"

He shook his head.

"No, perhaps five minutes. No more. In fact, I must thank you for giving me the perfect reason to call a halt to an interminably tedious meeting!" He had, in fact, done exactly that: having got through all the important factors the presentation had descended into the mind-numbing boredom of statistics and when it looked like it was going to go over time he had used his next 'meeting' as the excuse to end the current one. "How was the exhibition?"

The woman sighed as they turned to move back inside.

"Sadly, I can't tell you that because I've only just got here – Erin was called into work and Dimitri was already out so I stayed home to look after Rosie. You made an impression there, by the way, she can't quite believe that she met a _man_ who knew about ballet and is Russian!"

"I am not so unusual in knowing about ballet in Moscow," he demurred truthfully. "She is an intelligent child, it was a pleasure to talk to her." As he held the door open for her he added, "Would you still like to go through the exhibition? We have the time."

That was a surprise but she wasn't going to say no. Not when a large part of the exhibit revolved around the Tsarist court.

Neither of them noticed the middle-aged tourist leaning against a wall and chatting quietly on his mobile phone as they passed down the corridor. The man's eyes followed them as he murmured,

"Well, that explains it. He's met a woman and they look like they're making for one of the special exhibits."

"A woman?" The voice at the other end sounded surprised. "That's a first since he offed that red-headed bitch of a wife of his."

"We don't know he actually did that," the younger man glanced over at a marble bust that had been watching him for the entire conversation, some Greek or Roman big-wig whom no-one remembered any more. The other man gave a dry, scratchy laugh.

"You haven't seen what Director Coaver had backed up to the network about her before she had him kidnapped out of Five's hands and killed. She wasn't the type to top herself and he would've had to be superhuman to _not_ put her out of her misery, assuming he found out even the half of it. Something sure as hell happened in that bunker. Anyhow, if he hadn't done us all a favour Harry Pearce would have and if neither of them had we would have, for what she did to Coaver. Gavrik probably realised that at some level." A sudden cough interrupted the words for a moment as the listener glanced back up the corridor to where the pair had stopped in front of a painting and were discussing it. Getting back to the point he asked, "Who's the new broad?"

"Got no idea. His age group, white, dark hair, average height or a bit more, conservative dresser, that's all I can say."

"Did you get any vision?"

"No."

"See if you can. Meantime I'll hack into the CCTV and try to find them and ID her. She might be useful leverage."

The man in the museum heaved himself off the wall and began to follow the other pair at a discrete distance.

"You're assuming she means anything to him."

"A reasonable assumption, he hasn't met any female for anything apart from business, anywhere, for over two years, as far as we're aware. There's only one way to find out so keep on them, see what happens when they leave."

"Will do."

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _The coffee was nice, as was the company, the discussions and the visit to the latest exhibition at the V &A that I was going to go to anyway – the Treasures of the Royal Courts show, so it was handy having a genuine Russian to attend with! Especially one who is so erudite, intelligent, gentlemanly and charming. We almost got through the thing without him being recognised, until a couple of Russian tourists saw him. I gather he's rather well known over there. He handled it well, though, for all I couldn't understand a word that was said, and we were soon left in peace. We had a good time, anyway, and he said he's going to be back in town some time over the next month (he's heading home on Tuesday morning) so he'd let me know when and we could organise lunch or something. Swapped emails to go with the phone numbers but I'll believe it when I see it: I Googled him this morning and he moves in realms far removed from my own so I don't really expect anything. It was nice having some different company for a while and I guess I will have to leave it at that. Erin did her lolly when she overheard me mentioning him to Rosie and she realised I'd gone to the museum with him so I told her to relax and that I'd probably never clap eyes on him again (although I didn't tell her about the phone number and email swap). Her job makes her far too suspicious._

Erin's Diary:

I can't believe she did that. Went out with Gavrik. Fortunately I don't think she's aware of quite who he is, or was, more to the point. Nothing about that comes up on the internet and I know she googled him because I checked the computer records. Thank god the bastard's out of the country on Tuesday. Hopefully that will be an end to it.

Ilya's Journal:

After the business of the morning was concluded I spent a very pleasant afternoon with Jean Watts. She is in fact every bit as intelligent as she appeared last night and very pleasant company. We attended an exhibition and then went for coffee elsewhere and I was surprised by the depth of knowledge she displayed with her questions on Russian history but perhaps I should not be; she is a clinical psychologist, a lecturer at University College London and an established authority on applying that science to historical figures and also a published author, according to my research this evening. I enjoyed myself more than I have done for several years so I will be contacting her when I return shortly after the next round of talks, although no doubt her daughter would wish otherwise.


	3. Chapter 3

3\. Wednesday/Thursday 4/5 December 2013

 _Heathrow Airport, Wednesday 4 December, late evening_

At this hour of the night the endlessly long, clinically white corridors were almost empty, sickly fluoro lighting shining on the worn, somewhat stained carpets and silent ranks of uncomfortable chairs as Ilya strode towards the baggage carousel. At least getting through immigration had been quick, even though he had just arrived on a flight direct from Beirut. Normally he would have come _via_ Moscow and a quick visit to Sasha but the negotiations, if you could call them that, in Damascus had dragged on longer than scheduled, bogged down in the usual factional arguments and he had urgent business to deal with here in London, starting tomorrow, so a phone call during the day would have to suffice. Again, and if his son would talk to him this time. He never knew.

He mulled over the issue of Sasha while waiting for the baggage carousel to grind into motion. The boy had never really recovered from the revelation of his mother's true nature: catatonic for three months after the murder – accidental, but murder nonetheless – of Ruth Evershed that had marked his final melt-down, he had spent the entire period under close watch in the best secure psychiatric facility in Moscow, a place that was staffed mostly by foreigners and so discrete that it catered entirely to the elite of the city and was unknown to the rest of the populace, a desirable thing given the less than supportive attitude of most Russians to psychiatry. When Sasha had finally started to resurface he had barely spoken to his father and had been disinclined to leave the hospital, a decision supported by his psychologist and psychiatrist so Ilya had seen little option but to leave him there. Then, just before Christmas of 2011, had come the news that he had confessed to the murder of Anatoly Arkanov, in writing, to Evgeny Kuzin no less.

Ilya had, of course, found out about Arkanov long beforehand, during that first meeting as totally broken equals with Harry in an anonymous pub not far from the Eurostar terminus where they had first hatched their plan for joint revenge against RussiaFirst. He had believed, hoped, that no more would come of it and nothing had until the sudden confession. He had then thought he had convinced his son to keep quiet about it while he sorted it out but despite using his not inconsiderable influence in an attempt to convince Kuzin to withdraw the arrest warrant it was Sasha himself who had thrown a spanner into that particular wheel.

The young man had become obsessed, driven by guilt, anger at his parents, revulsion at his own actions, who knew what, with the idea of paying in full for his sins and so had been immovable in his desire to stand trial and be sentenced for what he had done to his best friend. He couldn't actually remember what he had done to the Englishwoman – everything after seeing his father execute his mother had been wiped during his months of silence although there must have been something buried because one thing he never brought up was Harry's assistance at dealing with the aftermath of Arkanov's murder – but it was different with Anatoly. That he remembered, in high definition, and it was that he was utterly determined to pay penance for. The trial had been swift and all Ilya had been able to achieve was to keep it out of the press and get the sentence reduced to ten years, on grounds of temporary insanity, to be served in the same secure psych hospital.

The rattle of the carousel brought Ilya back to the present and he realised he was now surrounded by his fellow passengers, all pushing forward like so many sheep against a fence. His height meant he could see over their heads to spot his bag coming out, the third such to appear, so he politely pressed forward, grabbed it and headed towards customs and the exit, where his security personnel and car were waiting on the other side. The ritual of waiting for the baggage was about the only down-side to catching commercial flights compared to running the corporate jet but the latter had been retired for economic reasons and because of the memories it held six months ago: if the company still needed a private flight they now chartered one.

Once in the car and threading through the minimal traffic in a gentle rain that softened edges and gave a slick brightness to lights reflecting onto the road he checked his watch and sighed to himself when he saw that it was well after ten, courtesy of the delayed departure and subsequent headwinds. He had a meeting first thing with Malcolm Wynne-Jones and he would prefer to be firing on all cylinders for that one. The man had a brain faster than the high-tech products he produced so he needed to be able to keep up, as it was the security of his entire corporation that was under discussion. After that was another meeting with the managers of his South American operations then an afternoon of the same thing with his people from Singapore, Hong Kong and India. In between, he had been hoping to catch up with Jean Watts. Had they got in on time he would have called her but it was too late now and he was exhausted anyway due to a combination of his body clock being several hours ahead and his usual inability to sleep on an aircraft, no matter how comfortable it was in first class. Closing his eyes against the sudden glare of an on-coming vehicle he decided he would call her tomorrow morning.

 _London Eye, Thursday 5 December, 11:00_

The forecast was for increasing wind and rain during the day and the weather had begun to live up to it as Jean and her grand-daughter left the zoo at Regent's Park and made their way into the city for the treat of a ride on the London Eye. The child should have been at school but had managed to get a green-stick fracture of her arm in the school yard two days beforehand and so was having the rest of the week off to recuperate and get used to the cast on her forearm. Jean, not having to teach today, had volunteered to take her out for a few hours to burn off some of her boredom-induced energy and hence here they were, 130-odd metres up in the sky suspended in an over-sized glass egg with a couple of strangers, the child delighted by the view (as she always was), the adult spending more time looking at the sky and hoping that she was imagining the increasing, gentle swing of the pod in the strengthening wind. At least the unappealing weather meant there hadn't been much of a queue and the temperature outside was actually a few degrees higher than the normal for the time of year, only half- instead of totally freezing, if one ignored the wind-chill factor.

The sudden vibration of her bag indicated that her phone was ringing. Hauling it out, she lifted one elegantly arched eyebrow and smiled at the sight of who it was. Rosie had her nose pressed against the glass, riveted by the sight of a bird sliding through the sky not far away, so Jean moved off to the emptiest part of the pod as she answered.

"Hello! This is a nice surprise."

She had entirely forgotten exactly how deeply mellifluous the Russian's voice was until she heard it again.

"Hello, Jean. I am very glad to hear that! How are you?"

They continued to chat in generalities for a few moments until the man said,

"I know this is short notice but would you like to meet somewhere for lunch? It will only be quick but it would be nice to catch up in person for a change instead of by email as we have been doing."

Jean gazed at her grand-daughter and sighed inwardly. No matter how patient he had been with the child at the wedding she doubted if he would want to be bugged by her over lunch during the working week.

"I would love to, Ilya, but I've got Rosie in tow so we should probably reschedule for another day, depending on how long you're in town."

Contrary to her thoughts, at the other end of the line Ilya smiled briefly at the memory of the little imp's interrogation.

"No, please bring her along. We will find somewhere suitable."

"She will chew your ear off about ballet again!" The woman's voice was a warm, although slightly warning, chuckle; he smiled again as he stared out the window of his fairly new office on the 26th floor of The Shard at the lowering clouds that were scudding past far too closely, shooting tiny water bullets at the glass as they did so, and replied,

"That is okay. It will make a change from the endless corporate-speak that I will be subjected to for the rest of the day."

"Well, if you are sure…"

He reassured her again and they spoke for a little longer, arranging where and when to meet before signing off. Rosie, seeing her grandmother putting the phone away, bounced over with a wide, blue-eyed look.

"Who was that, Nanna?"

"Just a friend, poppet. We're going for lunch with them."

"Oh." The child looked somewhat unimpressed. "Do I know them?"

"Yes, you've met once before." She ruffled her hair. "Don't worry, you will enjoy yourself and it won't be for long. Then we can go shopping!"

 _The Shard and Surrounds, 12:15_

Once they had descended from the top of the Eye it hadn't taken very long for Jean and Rosie to make their way on the Bakerloo Line to the appointed meeting place at The Shard. It was blissfully warm inside the lobby but there was as yet no sign of Ilya so they moved to one of the enormous walls of glass and watched people outside on the plaza getting buffeted by the wind. Showers were becoming more frequent and heavier now; before too long it would be full rain and wind and Jean was beginning to wonder if she was going to have to cancel the shopping part of the day.

They had been laughing at the sight of an escapee umbrella bowling across the paving, it's irate owner in full chase, when they turned back to check the lifts and saw the tall Russian talking to a couple of other men but with his eyes on them. He smiled, quickly; Jean responded and then felt an insistent tug at her hand. Looking down, Rosie gazed back, wide-eyed.

"Nanna, that's _Ilya_!"

She laughed.

"I know, darling. That's who we're having lunch with."

He had spotted the pair as soon as the lift doors had opened and had taken some delight in watching their interaction while he was catching up on some final information from his GM whilst simultaneously despatching his bodyguard to go and get his own lunch. The man seem inclined to argue but a gentle,

"I believe I can look after myself for an hour, Vadim," along with the slightly frosty look that went with it was sufficient to change that and he was suddenly alone. He saw them exchange words and suddenly the girl was skipping at speed across the floor towards him, a big grin on her face and calling to him at the top of her voice.

"Ilya! _Ilya!_ " Skidding to a halt in front of him she asked, "Hello! What are you doing here?"

Smiling at the child and unexpectedly winking at her grandmother he crouched down so he was at her eye level and replied gravely,

"Hello, Miss Rosie. I am here to take you and your grandmother to lunch."

"Where are we going?"

"I think I know but we will wait to see what your nanna thinks." He gently touched the cast on her right arm. "I was going to shake your hand again but I can see I should not. What happened?"

"Oh, I broke my arm," she answered casually before suddenly leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek.

"Rosie!" Jean breathed quietly, having joined them in time to hear and see what the girl said and did and being slightly mortified as a result. "Don't take liberties!"

Seeing the slight hesitation in the child's grey-blue eyes he smiled at both of them and replied,

"No, it is okay. Thank you, Rosie. If you would allow me?" He returned the kiss on the cheek, very gently, leaving the young one smiling.

"I fell out of a tree!"

"Did you?"

"Yes, climbing far too high up the only tree in the schoolyard," Jean interpolated drily while quietly enjoying Rosie revelling in seeing her friend again.

"It's the highest I've ever climbed," she boasted, "but I was half way down again when I fell out."

"Well, congratulations on climbing so high. I am sure you will get better at descending with more practice."

Rosie dimpled at him while Jean said, slightly indulgently,

"Stop encouraging her!"

Finally straightening up again, to the quiet relief of his knees and hips, he smiled at the woman and responded,

"It is good for her to find her limits and then push them although perhaps in safer surroundings next time. Hello, Jean."

Somewhat to her surprise she found herself exchanging kisses on the cheek with him and noting the subtle, masculine scent of his cologne – she didn't know what it was but it was expensive – she was glad she had indulged in a squirt of her own favourite Oscar de la Renta perfume this morning.

"Hello, Ilya. It's nice to see you again. I'm afraid we're not dressed for anywhere too classy, unlike yourself."

He was elegant in a beautifully tailored, navy suit, crisp shirt and understated silk tie striped in the colours of the Russian flag but he just shrugged and replied,

"This is merely my work uniform, nothing special and you are both looking fine." Child and adult, both were dressed simply in jeans, boots, sweaters and coats against the weather; Rosie looked cute, Jean had that understated class in her appearance that he had noticed at the wedding. "Some of my staff assure me that there is a good Italian restaurant very near by which will be suitable for all of us, if that is agreeable?"

"Very. And if it serves pizza then this one will be in seventh heaven!"

It was close: not much more than one hundred metres, by her calculations, which was a relief, given the weather. The entrance was unremarkable, a dark red canopy on a building clad in standard glass and stone but once inside the atmosphere and the greeting was warm, with simple wooden furniture, rough exposed brick, a wall of glass windows looking out onto the street and a huge archway of the same brick forming a feature overhead. Olive-green walls and dark red leather banquettes lit with subtle down-lights completed the slightly rustic feel. The place was filling up, including five of Ilya's employees who were already seated when the trio moved through to their table at the far end, in a reasonably secluded corner surrounded on two sides by windows. He greeted them lightly in passing and Jean was pleasantly surprised when they all cheerfully called back; once out of earshot one of the young men sat back and said,

"Wouldn't have expected to see the boss-man here for lunch!"

"He's probably escaping the visitors for a while, they've had him and Andrei locked up all morning, chewing their ears off," responded the older of the two women at the table, somewhat gloomily as she was speaking from the experience of having sat in on said meetings before. One of the other men, a stocky Maori who was in charge of the local arm of the finance department, sat back and stretched comfortably.

"A bro's gotta eat some time and that bro's never struck me as a snob."

"I'd like to hear you calling him 'bro' to his face, Tamati," the first speaker said and the others all nodded sagely. With the exception of the older woman they had all heard of, but not witnessed, their company owner's ability to snap-freeze with a single look anyone who got off-side. The woman who had seen it shuddered again: it had been that moment when she had realised that the rumours of Gavrik probably being ex-KGB were also probably true… The other woman, younger, good at her job but otherwise a bit ditzy, leaned forward breathlessly and added,

"Yes, but who is he WITH? I've never seen her around before, let alone the kid."

Tamati suddenly gave a huge grin.

"Well, a bro's gotta—"

"That's enough of that!" the older woman said, knowing exactly where that sentence was going to end and peering over her reading glasses with a quelling look. "He pays our salaries but that doesn't entitle us to speculate on his private life."

"I couldn't agree more," the last person at the table, a slightly older Californian, said as he finished his text and put his phone down on the table. "I can think of a lot of more interesting things to talk about than the boss so let's move on to some of them!"

Just under five kilometres away to the west across town the younger man, seated at his desk in a tucked-away part of the building, glanced at his phone as it chimed melodiously, indicating an incoming text.

 _Now out for lunch with an unknown woman and child. Meetings with South Americans for the rest of the day._

The reader lifted an eyebrow. He hadn't managed to get an image of Gavrik and the woman at the V&A last time and they hadn't been able to recover any decent footage from the hacked CCTV either so now might be another chance to identify her, always assuming it was the same person.

 _Try to get a photo of her without tipping them off._

The trio were seated in a small, quiet alcove at one end of the main room, the Russian with his back to the wall so he could maintain a view not only of the room but of outside through the two other walls made entirely of tinted plate-glass windows and also of the entrance door not very far away: some old habits never died and this one was more important than ever these days, with so many business enemies still out to get him. At least he could relax a little more when he was out of Moscow but even so... Conversation had been light and inconsequential, despite his thoughts, while they perused the menu, interrupted when the waiter arrived to take their orders, from Jean first and then Ilya before finishing with a polite,

"And for your grand-daughter, Sir?"

Rosie still had her nose in the menu and didn't take any notice; Jean allowed a little grin to tweak her lips for a split second as she admired the man's aplomb. Without missing a beat he turned to the child and asked gently,

"Rosie? Have you decided what you would like for lunch?"

She finally looked up and smiled.

"Pizza, please!"

After the waiter had left the woman said,

"You handled that one well."

He smiled slowly.

"It was a reasonable assumption, given the circumstances."

"You don't have grandchildren yet?"

The man's eyes suddenly became a little remote, their shifting colours flatter.

"No, not yet, or not as far as my son or I know, anyway." The joke was the usual one but not quite delivered with his usual dry humour. _That was one thing she had learned very quickly that appealed to her: the man had a sense of humour that was drier than a desert wind and a keenly developed sense of irony that was as sharp as a razor blade._

"Well, there is that! What is his name, your son?" She didn't want to admit that she'd been Googling him and already knew.

"Aleksandr but he is known as Sasha. He is about the same age as Erin but not yet married or ready to start a family."

"What does he do?"

Again, that remoteness and now the eyes, normally somewhere between hazel and tiger's eye, were more green.

Ilya struggled for a moment about what to answer with but decided a partial truth would be the easiest instead of his usual prevarication. She was a psychologist, she should have some idea of the implications, as long as she didn't start digging too deeply and discover the rest of it.

"He has not been doing anything for some time. He had a major break-down in 2011 and has been under treatment since although he has recently begun to study agronomy with some idea of eventually going to Africa and other such places to do good deeds."

 _Ah. If she was remembering right 2011 was when his wife had died. That explained a lot, including the change in his demeanour. Best leave it alone._

"I'm sorry to hear that but if he is now studying then that's a good sign. As for grandchildren, he's got plenty of time—"

Rosie, who had been pulling apart a bread roll and nibbling it, suddenly piped up,

"Ilya, have you seen any of your ballerinas lately?"

Relieved at the opportunity to break a slightly uncomfortable conversation both adults turned to smile at the child.

"Unfortunately not, Miss Rosie. I have been very busy travelling since I last saw you but next time I go home I will be going to some rehearsals for the annual Christmas concerts in both Moscow and St Petersburg."

"Wow!" the child breathed, wide eyed with wonder. Jean asked quietly,

"These are your scholarship students?"

"Yes. We take one girl and one boy from each new year's intake at both the Bolshoi School in Moscow and the Vaganova Academy in St Petersburg and support them through to graduation, if they make it that far. Each year we also subsidise the pre-Christmas concert for both schools. I try to get to each performance but do not always make it but I always fit in either a technical or dress rehearsal regardless. That way I can catch up with them personally for a few moments afterwards."

"That's very generous of you."

"It is not so expensive and I remember what it was to be young and ambitious yet have no money. My sister Svetlana showed some talent with dance when she was young but my parents were not permitted by the Soviet Government to move to where she could get the teaching she needed. That is why the Foundation is named in her memory."

He wasn't about to tell her that it was originally named for his now-deceased wife, the ballerina on her way to greatness when injury ended that calling, the subsequent bitterness fuelling a second, murderous career. The Foundation, along with every other part of the company's philanthropic arm that had had any link to her had been quietly renamed over the past two years, just as he had actively removed any trace of her from everywhere else in his life.

Half an hour later the table of Kaspgaz employees began to pack up to return to work. In the mild melée the Californian took the opportunity to capture a short video of the trio at the end table and send it directly to his handler. The receiver was at lunch himself in the canteen at the time and couldn't repress an exclamation of pleasure as he ran the imagery; punching a number on his speed-dial the older man answered.

"Don, what have you got?"

"Video clip of the woman. And a child, currently at lunch with Gavrik. Looks like the same one as before."

"Run it through the facial recognition and databases then."

"Heading back to my desk right now to do exactly that, Ted."

As he stood up and moved away a woman at the next table watched him go, cornflower blue eyes speculative. Tall, lithe and very blonde with unruly curls escaping the tight bun she had tried to contain them in, Brontee Sorenson was now the senior analyst in her section, her determination to honour the memory of Deputy Director Jim Coaver, along with her natural ability, having propelled her upwards at a meteoric rate. She had been very aware of the Special Activities Division ever since the day of Jim's death and didn't trust them as far as she could kick them. The latest pair in charge had arrived six months ago and were even more questionable than their predecessors. Ted Michaeli was a bit of a slob: middle-aged, overweight, balding but otherwise hairy, a bit sleazy while Don Galloway was ten years younger with a paunch that was only just developing, had more hair on his head and less on his body but was lazy and an unpopular smart-arse, or so she had heard on the grapevine. The SAD was always a bit off but this pair were distinctly whiffy so she wondered what had triggered the excitement just now. It might be worth keeping an eye on them and doing some digging.

The rain was getting heavier as the trio returned to The Shard so they didn't waste any time out in the open. Once back near the elevators Rosie ran over to the windows again to giggle at the sight of more people caught out in the weather as the adults said their farewells, including kisses on each cheek again. As Jean turned to call Rosie over Ilya suddenly touched her on the arm and asked,

"Jean, are you available for lunch on Saturday?"

She couldn't disguise the surprised pleasure in her eyes.

"Yes, that would be lovely. It will just be just us, the rest of the family is going to Dimitri's mother's for lunch."

They both silently enjoyed the prospect of that although neither said anything, Ilya merely adding,

"I will call you with the details when I have booked somewhere."

 _Watts Household, Stamford Brook, 19:40_

Dinner was over and the house was largely quiet apart from a muted television when Erin and Dimitri arrived home. It had been a long day of nothing much: sitting around in the office doing paperwork for him and attending endless meetings with or on behalf of Harry, newly returned with an out-of-season tan from his honeymoon, for her. She wondered, on days like today, whether she really wanted to climb any further up the ladder because it seemed that the further up you got the less actual interesting work you did.

"We're home," she called as they hung up their overcoats in the hallway; Jean called something indistinct from the kitchen while Rosie came bolting out from the reception room.

"Mummy!" She threw herself at her mother and was lifted into a big hug before turning to the man for a similar greeting. "Hello, Dee!"

"Did you have a good day?" he asked after he'd extracted himself from her enthusiastic, one-armed embrace.

"Yes! We went to the zoo and then for a ride on the Eye: it was _amazing_."

They were walking into the kitchen by this stage where Jean was pulling plates out of the cupboard in preparation for serving out the rest of the dinner.

"The Eye? That would have been fun in this weather." Dimitri winked at Jean as he squeezed past, heading for the fridge and a well-earned beer.

"It was before the wind really picked up so it wasn't too bad," the older woman responded with a smile.

"And then we went out for lunch and I had pizza! It was yummy."

" _You_ are a very lucky girl having pizza for lunch," Erin answered slightly absently as she reached for one of the glasses of wine that Dimitri had just poured.

With great satisfaction Rosie replied,

"Well, Ilya said I could have whatever I wanted so I had pizza!"

Erin froze and looked from her daughter to her mother, eyes and voice suddenly sharp.

" _Ilya_?"

"Yup," the child prattled on, oblivious to the icing-over of the atmosphere. "He rang nanna while we were in the Eye and then we went to The Shard for lunch! He was really nice again, mum, and he was telling us about his ballerinas."

"You went to his _office_?" The words were almost a hiss and Rosie suddenly stopped dancing around to look at her mother uncertainly.

"We met him in the ground floor foyer and went to an Italian restaurant nearby for a quick meal, that's all," Jean explained, waiting for the explosion.

"You knew he was in town?"

Her mother's eyes were a weary dark grey as she served out the casserole and started to stare down her daughter.

"No. Not until he rang. All I knew was that he was due back here some time this week."

"So you are still in touch with him?"

"Intermittently, by email. Is that a problem?"

" _Yes!_ For God's _sake_ , Mum, I've told you before to steer clear of that man. He's very dangerous and I don't want either of you anywhere near him!"

"That's not how he comes across to me, or to your daughter."

"You haven't got the slightest idea about him or what he's done in the past."

"Well if it's that bad why don't you _tell_ me?"

By this stage both their voices were raised and they were leaning on either side of the kitchen bench, eyes locked. Erin breathed in, hard, suddenly up against the wall of the Official Secrets Act, before she spat an almost venomous,

" _I can't_."

"Then all I can do is judge on what I see!"

"You can at least leave my daughter out of it—"

"She _likes_ him, Erin, I thought it might be a treat for her."

"Well I don't agree. Please don't do it again."

A very quiet whimper came from the side just as Dimitri, not wanting to go through this argument yet again, interjected with a quiet warning.

"Erin. That's probably enough. We all have stuff in our past we'd rather forget—"

"Not like _that._ " An image of the dead Elena Gavrik was floating before her as she spoke and Dimitri knew it, although Jean couldn't.

"—and that we're never going to repeat and we have to leave it there. Anyway, you're upsetting Rosie."

Guilt suddenly made Erin flush and bite down on any more words as she glanced down at the girl who had tears on her cheeks and who was clutching Dimitri's shirt for comfort. Kneeling down she gathered her daughter to her, brushing the tears away.

"I'm sorry, poppet, I didn't mean to upset you."

"Did I do something wrong?" Her voice was small and she was still sniffling anxiously.

"No, sweet heart. You did nothing wrong. And I'm sorry if I've messed up your nice day. Forget about grumpy mummy and tell me what else you did today."

"We talked to Ilya about ballet again," she said tremulously, watching the shadows chase themselves across her mother's blue-grey eyes. "Then I went shopping with nanna and we came home early because the weather was horrible."

As they continued to talk quietly, while they both calmed down, Dimitri looked at Jean and gave a small shrug and shake of the head, to which she grimaced a reply and pushed the plates of food over the marble counter towards him. Erin straightened up again to see her mother gazing at her frostily.

"Have your dinner, it's been a long day." Her voice was as icy as her look. "It's nearly Rosie's bed-time so I'll go and get her in the bath."

With that she turned to her grand-daughter, smiled, took her hand and led her away without a backwards glance. Erin sighed and buried her face in her hands.

"Come on, have some dinner and finish your wine, that will make you feel better." Dimitri said patiently, massaging her shoulders briefly. The woman leaned back against him and stared sightlessly up at the white height of the ceiling.

"What do I do, Dee? I was hoping this wouldn't happen again but what if it continues, or, God forbid, develops into something."

"Christ, they've only caught up twice. You're making a storm in a teacup so don't worry about it until it happens."

"I know, I know…"

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _When we got into town we spent an hour or so at the Zoo and were at the top of the Eye when I got a phone call. To my utter surprise it was Ilya. He'd got in very late last night and wanted to know if I was interested in a quick lunch. I explained I had company but he said to bring her along so we met up with him at his office and all three of us went out. Rosie was ecstatic – for some reason she's taken to him like a duck to water – and even he seemed happy enough, later saying rather wistfully that he would have liked a daughter but it wasn't to be. I was happy as well, of course – most of us spend our lives having the same conversations with the same people so having the opportunity to get an insight into a completely different world is brilliant. We've been exchanging occasional emails but it was nice to see him again and have as much of a grown-ups conversation as we could with a seven year old in tow. We're having lunch again on the weekend, alone this time! I tried to keep quiet about it tonight but of course shouldn't have bothered, as it was about the second thing out of Rosie's mouth after Erin came home. She was absolutely furious, went ballistic, but wouldn't explain why. Honestly, children really think we oldies are stupid, sometimes: I hate to break it to her but I worked out at the wedding reception that Ilya has to be ex-KGB, with everything that implies. It's the only way he could have known Harry for as long as he has and it's probably the only way he could have ended up where he is today. I suppose I should tell her that I know but I'm so annoyed about it right now that I might just let her keep on stewing._

Erin's Diary:

Gavrik has turned up again, like a bad bloody penny. They all went out for lunch today, apparently. Mum swears she didn't know he was in town until he rang but she also didn't say no when he asked her out, on the excuse that she had my daughter with her and thought it would be a treat for her. As if it's not bad enough that he's sniffing around Mum, apparently he's also cast his spell over Rosie, she wouldn't shut up about him. I'm afraid I lost my temper but then couldn't explain why so all I succeeded in doing was upsetting my daughter and pissing off my mother. Again, Dee is absolutely no use, says I'm making a mountain out of nothing. I really don't know what to do – he says let it ride, see if it goes any further, but how do I do that when I know what the truth is?

Ilya's Journal:

I waited until almost lunch time before ringing Jean. It was far too late when I arrived last night and I was busy from very early this morning so there was no option but to wait until then. She was already in town with Rosie so I went down to meet them in the foyer before escorting them to lunch. I saw them before they saw me, and it was nice to watch them together for a few moments. Even nicer was when Rosie saw me and came running over with a big smile to say hello. The child is very sweet and well-mannered, although enthusiastic to talk. Lunch was short anyway but it was a little sad to see them go. I am, however, meeting Jean again – alone – on Saturday for a longer lunch. It gives me something to look forward to.


	4. Chapter 4

4\. London, Saturday 7 December 2013

 _Hyde Park and Surrounds,_ _05:30_

Although it still wanted a couple of hours to sunrise the trio of men pounded steadily along the pavement down Bayswater Road and past Kensington Palace Gardens on their usual morning run. They were not moving particularly fast but were not slow either and were currently just past the half-way point of their eleven kilometre long track. The man at the front, the youngest of the bodyguards and a fairly recent Russian special services operative, was breathing regularly, not even feeling it yet while the other at the back, an older Canadian veteran of the French Foreign Legion, was finding things a little harder, particularly in the cold clearness of this morning. Much though he appreciated the opportunity to keep fit their boss was a machine when he was running and by this stage the Canadian's muscles were beginning to burn and he was starting to get a few ragged edges to his breath.

Ilya, in the middle of the group, was in the zone, breathing hard but easily and with a regular long stride that ate up the kilometres. He wasn't as fast as he used to be but he made up for it with endurance instead and he used the time every morning to think about things without external interruptions. On this morning as they rounded the corner into Kensington Church Street from Bayswater Road he was considering the preliminary report that he had received from Malcolm Wynne-Jones on the cyber-security status of Kaspgaz. Having leafed through it two evening's ago he had gone through it again in detail yesterday afternoon and last night and it had made sobering reading. It would appear that there were potential gaps in his current system that could be exploited by advanced hackers – Malcolm had included evidence where he himself had recently penetrated almost to the heart of the Kaspgaz mainframe from more than one direction before being stopped or, on one occasion, choosing to stop – and other weaknesses were showing up in other areas. The Welshman had some ideas already but would develop them further once he had completed his review. The next step that Wynne-Jones had suggested was something of a reverse test, to see if there was anyone or anything inside the organisation that was leaking outwards. That was something Ilya was always interested in.

He had approached his first business meeting with the quiet Welshman with no preconceptions apart from having enjoyed his and his wife's company at Harry's wedding and had been quickly impressed by the man's knowledge and professionalism. Since then Harry's high opinion of his former co-worker had proven to be an accurate assessment so Ilya had expanded Malcolm's scope of work considerably to include not only the current review and overhaul of the entire Kaspgaz security but also, after Thursday's meeting, had commissioned the development of some of the other man's cutting edge ideas for personal security and monitoring. He was slightly fed up with the constant need for bodyguards everywhere he went so if Malcolm came good with some of his prototypes he was more than willing to sink more of a stake into their full development, with himself as the primary trial subject.

By this stage they were back into Hyde Park and moving eastwards, parallel to Knightsbridge and he allowed his mind to wander towards the plans for lunch and the afternoon. He had booked lunch at the Savoy Grill, not least because he had never been there and it therefore had no connotations of Elena attached to it, always a thing to be desired, but he was hoping now that it wouldn't be too much for what was essentially going to be their first date.

That he was even thinking along those lines had been a slow revelation over the previous twenty four hours and one that he still wasn't sure about. He genuinely enjoyed Jean's company – she was a refreshingly down-to-earth change from most of the people he dealt with in so-called 'social' situations these days – but there had never been any intent for anything else to happen. To the regular disappointment of the procession of young to middle-aged, overly tanned and plasticised women who put themselves in his path and were on the lookout for a millionaire to fund the lifestyle they aspired to, this millionaire wasn't in the market at all, under any circumstances. Elena Platonovna's treachery had severely undermined his confidence on that front and shot to pieces his ability to trust at the most personal of levels, or so he had thought, until now.

The thought occupied him until they reached the far end of Hyde Park and turned down the gentle decline of Grosvenor Place alongside the faceless, barbed-wire crowned walls of Buckingham Palace Gardens towards Victoria Station and the run home, at which point he decided to stop worrying at it and let things be. After all, he had no evidence that Jean felt anything particular at all.

 _Grosvenor Square, 10:45_

"Have you identified the woman yet?" Michaeli's voice was a non-verbal picture of impatience as he spoke from his hotel room in Belfast. In his office, Galloway tapped the fingers of his right hand against the desktop and finally admitted,

"No. She's not in any database and doesn't even appear to have a presence on social media which makes it a bit hard to find anything."

The sigh which was the response said it all.

"Well, keep at it. The more leverage we can find on the damned Russian the better and I don't care what sort it is. We can't get at the son and there's been absolutely no sign of any other woman, or man, so this might be the only chance we have. Do we even know if he's seen her again?"

"That's the other part. No. We've tried to monitor his comms but he only uses encrypted phones and if he uses email it's not anywhere that we've been able to get at in the Kapsgaz servers yet."

"Not a surprise. The man is a master spy, right up there with Director Coaver and Sir Harry damned Pearce. You can expect him to do this sort of stuff in his sleep and the corporation he's built won't be any different so maybe we'd better stick with the old ways. Have you got someone on him?"

The younger man winced before he ground out his answer.

"No, not exactly."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Don?"

"He went for his normal run this morning, the loop around Hyde Park this time, now he's at the office, again as normal. The girl I had following him strained something during the run and had to go to the medic once she'd confirmed he was at the office. I haven't got anyone else today so I'm about to go over and take it on."

"For Christ's sake, are you sure he's even still there?"

"Yes. Inside word has it that he's spending the morning at least closeted with Andrei Semenyak and the rest of senior management going over the budget."

"Then get your ass over there, pronto. And make sure he doesn't see you. This is what, the third or fourth time you've tailed him in the past month: with Gavrik that frequency has been fatal for people in the past."

"Yeah, thanks Ted, I think I know that. I'm heading off now, I'll let you know if anything happens."

Five minutes later he was striding down the hallway towards the lifts to the underground carpark, walking straight past Brontee without even seeing her. She watched him go with an appraising gaze, wondering what he was up to now. In her spare time she had been very quietly and very carefully nosing around both Galloway and Michaeli and everything she found seemed to point towards some sort of surveillance operation going on, focussed on Russia's Minister for International Development and his corporation. She couldn't find out any more without some help but her antennae for trouble was firing up and it wasn't any sort of useful trouble that it was signalling. SAD's instructions came direct from Langley, circumventing even the London Station Chief: they were a law unto themselves, involved in everything from stirring trouble to extraordinary rendition and only God knew what else so the fact that they had Minister Gavrik in their sights didn't auger well. She hadn't forgotten what had happened on the Estuary in 2011 and the cost it had exacted on every one of the survivors, including the Minister and even herself. Not the ultimate payment delivered to Director Coaver, who had been so kind and thoughtful to her, but she occasionally wondered if it was just as bad in its own way, a living hell that had left them all permanently scarred.

Shaking off her fit of the heebie-geebies she changed her plans and instead of walking to the archives made a right turn towards D'wane's work area. Like her, he was rostered on this weekend and, like her, he had gone up in the ranks over the past two years, now being one of their senior technical experts. It was time she spoke to someone and D'wane Brandon was, at this stage, the only one she was willing to confide in.

After taking him through her evidence and suspicions so far they sat and gazed at each other for a few moments while he thought about it. D'wane had worked with Brontee for several years now and knew he could trust her instincts; he also had a healthy suspicion of the denizens of the Special Activities Division so was more than willing to believe the worst of them. Eventually the big man said in his resonant voice,

"Leave it with me for a few days. I'll see what I can get into _via_ the back door and what I can set up to monitor them. I might even quietly talk to Calum, see if our friends at Five have heard anything."

"Should we tell Tallulah yet do you think?"

"No, give me time to find something more solid. The more of an open-and-shut case the better when we go to the Chief. She wouldn't expect anything else."

 _Stamford Brook, 12:20_

The family had finally driven off at 11:30, an enthusiastic Rosie hanging out the window to wave until Erin had ordered her to sit back down. Once they had disappeared from sight Jean dashed back inside and up the two flights of stairs to her large loft bedroom suite for a swift shower before getting ready for lunch. She had done a double-take when Ilya had sent her the text with the details yesterday morning: lunch at the Savoy followed by private viewings at Christie's and Sotheby's. Once she had recovered her breath she had given a silent whoop of pleasure and sent back a succinct,

" _Yes, please!_ "

They had tick-tacked about their plans and a few other subjects of lesser importance on and off for the rest of the day but it had been mid-morning when the penny had dropped to Jean that she was going to have to find something to wear, as she doubted her normal uniform of denim, boots and casual shirts would cut it. As fortune had it her work had been done by lunchtime, giving her a couple of hours to shop; now was the time to make a final decision on what the hell she was going to wear. In the end it was the weather that made the decision – they were in a dry, bright break from the rain and wind so she chose the lighter, pale blue-grey lace top to wear with the good trousers and low heels she had bought for Harry and Hope's wedding along with a structured, lined, heavy linen jacket and subtle accessories. It would have to do: much more and she risked looking too formal, much less and it would be too casual. A quick lick of makeup and she was ready.

By the time she got downstairs and peered through the small window next to the front door a large, black and very shiny car was slowing to a halt outside her front fence. The windows were heavily tinted so she couldn't see who it was but she had a reasonable idea and by the time she had walked outside, locked the door and turned around again the tall Russian was out of the vehicle and walking up the path towards her, his face, usually hard when in repose, remarkably softened by the gentle smile she was getting to know so well.

"Hello, Jean."

"Ilya." Kisses on each cheek followed, with light conversation on the way back to the car. At the gate an innocuous, anonymous compact white car passed quietly up the road; Jean barely noticed it and Ilya's eyes, uninterested, flicked up for a moment and then returned to his companion as he moved to open his own vehicle's door for her.

Inside the white car Don Galloway spoke the address into his phone and then moved to a parking space on the other side of the road and further up so he could watch where the black limo went. The Lexus came to life and purred towards him before turning the corner to start its return journey to the centre of town. Following them at a discrete distance and maintaining several vehicles between himself and the target, he wasn't entirely surprised when they turned on to The Strand and then disappeared down the narrow access to the turnaround area in front of the Savoy Hotel. He would have to park up and find somewhere unobtrusive to wait, hoping they wouldn't be settling in for a long, boozy afternoon.

The pair weren't planning anything of the sort, merely looking forward to the meal and then their first appointment, at Christie's, at two. On entering the venue they had both looked around with interest as they were led to their table, again tucked away in a corner but just off the side of an enormous Art Deco mirror which reflected most of the room behind them, something that pleased the Russian as it meant he could maintain his habitual watchfulness. The ceiling was cream with the appearance of watered silk, the floor was a dull brown but it needed to be as the walls, when not mounted with more Deco mirrors, featured stunning gold-backed tortoiseshell panels which shimmered and glowed in the light coming from the many lights shrouded in either crystals or translucent cream fittings patterned with random brown circles. Overall it had something of the ambience of a first-class dining carriage on the Orient Express during the 1920's but without the wreaths of cigarette and cigar smoke.

"Impressive," she murmured to her companion as they approached the table, "if a bit…"

He dipped his head towards hers and, _sotto voce,_ completed the thought.

"…dowdy?"

Her grin flashed at him again, eyes dancing.

"Yes! Is that a terrible thing to say?"

Humour was sparking in his eyes, which were almost a match to the panelling today, although he kept a straight face as he responded,

"Only if it is not true!"

The food wasn't dowdy, living up to its reputation, and neither was the wine nor the company. The time flew by and it felt like they had just settled when it was time to move on. The Lexus was at the door by the time they had paid the bill and it was only a matter of minutes before they were at their King Street appointment. This time he offered her a hand out of the car when the chauffeur opened the door and then tucked hers into the crook of his arm as they made their way up the steps and inside the large wooden doors for their private viewing. They were greeted by two of the senior staff, including one of their Russian experts who was the first to speak to them but in that language, until Ilya put them straight.

"Thank you but that is not necessary and my companion is English."

The collection was dominantly paintings, ranging from large oils to small watercolour sketches but there were also extensive displays of silverware, porcelain and a number of items from the Faberge workshops, including the small, decorative eggs for which they were renowned. As they moved around Ilya initially explained that he was upgrading and adding to both his corporate and personal art collections (he had 'down-sized' the original ones when he had got rid of every item that had been chosen by or was a favourite of his former wife) and then gave the dealers some guidelines as to what he was looking for. They were discrete, allowing the pair room for private discussion while maintaining a gently hovering presence but to no avail: Ilya was giving nothing away as to whether he actually liked anything enough to bid on it while Jean was just enjoying this glimpse into how the other half lived.

The visit to Sotheby's followed much the same pattern except this time there was no porcelain and more Faberge. A small purpurine egg made into the form of a swan courtesy of intricate gold additions quietly caught her eye but it was something much larger and more expensive that actually brought her to a stop. She had wandered off a little ahead of the man, who was in discussion with one of the hoverers about some original set and costume designs by both Bakst and Benois for legendary ballets by Diaghilev's _Ballets Russes_ , into the next room which was full of paintings and come face to face with three major Aivazovsky seascapes: one a calm sunset with square-rigger, the second another sunset with a tall ship being tossed around on massive waves, both in warm tones, but it was the third one that caused her to gasp in wonder before making a bee-line for it. Another angry sea but this one in cold greys and greens with the waves dashing themselves against a stark, lonely headland of sharp and jagged rocks and the only signs of life being a few small birds riding the updraughts above the conflagration of land and sea and the hint of what might possibly be an old fashioned steam ship out on the horizon. It was so realistic she could almost hear the waves shattering themselves against the land and feel and smell the violent wind, spume and aerosols.

A pair of warm hands resting on her shoulders brought her back to her surrounds as Ilya said quietly into her ear,

"It is magnificent, is it not?"

"Spectacular," she breathed, enjoying his touch as much as the art of the painting in front of them. "You know, when I was a very small girl in Mallaig we used to visit relatives in the islands every Summer. This takes me right back there." They continued discussing it and its mates for a few more minutes before moving on to assess the rest of the works on display, both silently regretting the need to break off their moment of physical contact, although the man took possession of her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm again until they left.

It was with some reluctance that they finally got back into the car to start the return trip to Stamford Brook. The day had been very enjoyable for both and each would have liked to extend it but neither did, for similar reasons: he because he did not want to push it, having no confidence whatsoever of whether he was reading the situation right and she because she wasn't sure that he was interested in anything other than occasional platonic company, and then there was the issue of Erin's active dislike of the man. Despite their internal musings the trip passed pleasantly, with discussions on what he thought he might be interested in purchasing and what she had liked, with a somewhat unsurprising realisation by this stage that their taste was very similar. That was a relief to Ilya: Elena's taste in art had always been on the florid side but he had been happy to indulge her at the time, even when he personally loathed whatever it was. However all of that was gone now, consigned to a past he never wanted to visit again and he was enjoying discussing the subject with someone of a like mind, even if that's all it ever became.

By the time they turned into her street the conversation had diverted onto other subjects as her curiosity finally caused her to ask a few questions about his businesses. He was happy to answer, taking it for what it was: signs of a genuine interest in him (as opposed to his contacts or his background or his money). For Jean it was an opportunity to learn a little more about the man by way of how he spent his days and how he ran the business - although she had already received quite an insight the day they went to lunch with Rosie and she had seen the easy way between him and his employees - as well as confirming just how fearsomely intelligent he was. _Still, he probably had to be in order to build a multi-billion pound international corporation, no matter how shady the start might have been…_ There were no delusions for her on that front, she knew how most of the original oligarchs – those of Ilya's generation – had got their start and she presumed he was the same, particularly given his KGB origins, although he had never even hinted at that thus far.

Although only five thirty it was well dark by the time they pulled up in front of her house. The small, nondescript white car they had followed into the street kept going, eventually disappearing out of sight around the bend at the far end as they got out of the Lexus and walked up to the front door, security lights flashing on to drown the entire small front courtyard and the road beyond in an almost blinding white glow.

"That's one of the benefits of my daughter's job: the security upgrade was very impressive!" she joked as they blinked in the sudden illumination.

"I would expect nothing else."

"You should see the rest of it…"

Although it appeared that the family were still not home Jean couldn't think of any way of extending their farewells that didn't look obvious and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to be caught by Erin on her front step with Ilya anyway, although Rosie would be delighted and she suspected Dee wouldn't care one way or the other; that phlegmatic young man took things as they came and didn't sweat the small stuff, in fact had commented favourably on more than one occasion on the lengthy conversation he had had with the Russian at Harry and Hope's wedding reception.

Ilya was having similar thoughts, at least about the undesirability of Erin arriving while he was still there, so he made the farewells short, kissing her on both cheeks and then gently lifting her hand to his lips and departing with the promise to give her a call tomorrow. Remaining on watch until she was safely behind her closed door, he remained silent for a minute or so after giving the driver his instructions until he spotted a small, white, nondescript car parked up ahead in front of some shops. Leaning forward he said,

"Vadim. That white car ahead: get its registration and look in to whom it belongs. And watch to see when it starts following us again."

"Yes, sir." Altering the dash cam slightly the senior bodyguard-cum-chauffeur did as requested, silently breaking out into a discrete sweat as he wondered if he had missed something or if his boss was being paranoid. _But knowing Ilya, he had missed something. The man had too much ice flowing in his veins to be capable of being paranoid._ And Vadim had heard whispers of Gavrik's reputation from the time he himself had joined the FSB back in the late nineties, when his now-boss had been Lieutenant-General Gavrik, an amorphous figure at the very top of the still-new replacement for the short-lived FSK and its predecessor, the infamous KGB and who had been one of the people instrumental in the construction of the new organisation. Legends had swirled through the academy and still did, but no-one exactly knew how many of them were true; fifteen years later, Vadim Danilov was working directly with the man himself and was fairly certain that not only were all the legends probably true but they were also likely to be just the tip of that particular iceberg. He kept a watch in his mirrors as they passed the car; as Ilya predicted, when they were almost out of sight the car's lights came on and it slowly pulled out from the kerb, following them all the way back to Buckingham Gate.

 _Stamford Brook, 17:40_

Ilya had only driven off a couple of minutes beforehand when Jean, in her second-floor bedroom suite, heard the front door open and the family noisily return home. So far she had only managed to dump her clutch, jacket and heels and remove her jewellery so she padded back downstairs, barefoot, to greet them. Rosie, as ever, was the first to spot her and came bouncing up to say hello; Erin and Dimitri also looked up and daughter greeted mother with a smile.

"Hello, Mum, you look nice! Where are you going?"

Her mother did look lovely. Always chic, her elegance tonight was accentuated by a sparkle that had no obvious source.

Jean hesitated for a moment before deciding on the truth. Steeling herself for the response she replied evenly,

"Not going, been. We went out for lunch – to the Savoy, no less – and then spent the afternoon going for private viewings of Russian art and artefacts at Sotheby's and Christie's."

" _We?_ " Erin asked flatly, heart and gut contracting as her smile faded. _Not again…_ "You mean the Minister?"

"Yes. I've only just got home myself: you must have been driving in one end of the street while he was leaving the other, if you didn't pass him."

"Mum—"

"Did you see Ilya again, Nanna?" Rosie interrupted, a slightly despondent note in her voice.

"Yes. And he said to say hello to Miss Rosie for him, so 'hello, Miss Rosie'." The child dimpled with pleasure; Erin glanced from her daughter to her mother and the harsh words died on her lips. Her mother looked so happy she didn't have the heart to bring her down. The glow she was seeing had been uncommon since her step-father, Gerald Watts, had died in 2007 so, remembering Dimitri's words after their last argument, she decided to let it go and hope it finished once and for all after the Russian returned home on Wednesday. After all, she had been doing some serious digging of late but had found literally nothing that suggested that Ilya Gavrik had ever been anything other than civilised to family and friends. _Presumably Elena had just been the result of brain-snap, then…although it hadn't looked like it at the time and there had never been any evidence of him losing control anywhere that she had been able to find._ Jean watched her daughter take a breath and then visibly bite her tongue; appreciating the unexpected truce she added quietly,

"He is just a friend at best, Erin, nothing more. There is nothing for you to be worried about." _Liar,_ the little voice that sat at the back of her brain whispered, the little voice of cold, objective truth that she had never been able to stifle. _You know that's not true._ It had taken every shred of willpower she had possessedto not lean back against him when he had rested his hands on her shoulders; he had been the one who had been finding excuses to make physical contact all afternoon; and he had also been the one to _not_ raise any objections when she had constantly been in his personal space at the exhibitions. And then there had been that kiss on the hand. The treacherous little voice repeated _You know that's not true…_

_Jean's Diary:_

 _Lunch was lovely. Must admit I had been looking forward to it since Thursday and it surpassed my hopes. Rather dressy – we were at the Savoy – so fortunately Ilya picked me up in his (chauffeured!) car and we could get out right at the front door. My heart did a stupid little flip when I first saw him: beautifully dressed as ever, it was the smile that did it. He has a very strong face and can look extremely forbidding sometimes but in private he's lovely, much more relaxed, and with a gentle smile that lights up his eyes. I'm going to have to watch that, though. No point getting too attached._

 _We talked non-stop over the meal and then we went to a private viewing at both Christie's and Sotheby's – some auctions of Russian art and artefacts that he wanted to check out with the view of adding to the corporate and possibly his private collections – which was a very pleasant way of spending a few hours together. He had taken my arm when we were dropped off at the Christie's stairs, and we stayed that way inside and afterwards, with a repeat at Sotheby's. It was very nice. He's such a gentleman! Then he kissed my hand when he saw me to the door. I could get used to this, but I won't let myself. Someone as fabulously rich and powerful as Ilya Gavrik isn't going to be interested in little old me for anything apart from conversation and company._

Erin's Diary:

Mum went out with him again today. And when she came back she was absolutely sparkling. I can see where it's going for her and if it was anyone else but him I'd be so happy for her but I can't. I just can't. What do I do? I've been looking into him and nothing untoward has come up but still… I know different. I was there. What do I do?

Ilya's Journal:

Lunch was very enjoyable. I had been looking forward to it and it was worth the wait. Jean looked lovely and was in fine form over lunch and afterwards, at the auction houses. It was very nice having someone again to go to these things with, someone who understands and is interested in the arts. I would have liked to have gone out for dinner as well but it may have been too much so I refrained although I did give in to temptation an hour or so back and sent her a text, so we have been messaging for the time since. She is baby sitting tonight anyway. There is a possible business dinner on before I fly back to Moscow so I may ask her to accompany me. After days like today I find I am tiring of being alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: thank you to all who are reading and particularly those who are reviewing, as this is not the standard story or the usual characters so I very much appreciate you sticking with it!**

5\. London, Monday 9 December 2013

 _SAD Offices, Grosvenor Square, 10:20_

Ted Michaeli glanced up as his door closed with a thump and Don Galloway came to a stop on the other side of his desk, a triumphant grin on his face.

"Got her!"

"Got who?" Deeply buried in the minutiae of paperwork that even the SAD couldn't avoid forever the older man was briefly perplexed by the other's announcement.

"The mystery woman." Seeing the other man still looking blank he spelled it out more plainly. "Ilya Gavrik's girlfriend. When I was tracking him on Saturday they spent the afternoon together and I got her address."

"Did he see you? I warned you about that—"

Blissfully unaware, the younger man snorted, mildly derisive.

"No. No chance. He wasn't taking any notice of anything apart from her."

"You're damned lucky, then. So who is she?"

"One Flora Jeanette Watts, nee MacLean. Lives at the address with her daughter and grand-daughter." He sat down opposite his senior officer and continued. "Now I know who to look for she does have a small on-line presence, all academic. She's a lecturer at University College London in psychology, and a clinical psychologist specialising in education and troubled youth and she seems to have a side-line of writing popular articles and books doing psych analyses of historic figures. Apart from that there's nothing else out there. I've done some preliminary digging: she was a nurse originally before taking up study after she married a much older man, Gerald Watts, who was a Master Builder. He's not the father of the daughter – he adopted her when they married. He died in 2007, leaving his wife very comfortably off. She's been involved in child psychology and education for a couple of decades."

The other man's brow wrinkled.

"So how the hell does she come to be getting squired about by him?"

Galloway shrugged.

"That I can't answer. Don't know how long it's been going on, either, but they seem fairly tight so she might be a chink in his armour that we can use if we need to."

Michaeli thought for a moment.

"What about the daughter? Anything interesting on her?"

"Nah. Works in the civil service, some sort of accountant for the Fisheries Department. Single mother, bit of an oddity in that she doesn't have much of a social media presence either but then she's not a teenager. Apart from that, nothing else."

"Mmm. Alright. Good job, Don. We'll go on following him, although you can keep an eye on her as well if you want. If she's part of his routine we need to know about it. Langley are starting to push so we need to get on with things."

 _Analysis Section, Grosvenor Square, 14:45_

In her small office adjacent to that of the Acting Director, Tallulah Zanon, Brontee Sorenson was running a cross-check on some intel she had received from a couple of sources against their own information and some data supplied on the quiet from her source inside Vauxhall Cross (another blonde, a little older than Brontee and with a long history as a field agent for both the government and international private operators, by the name of Beth Bailey) when her internal messaging pinged with a note from D'wane.

 _Come and see me when you get a minute._

Well, any excuse to get away from the computer would do at the moment…

Ten minutes later she entered her friend's dimly-lit domain, the faces of his juniors lit up only by the faint glow of their screens or, in workrooms off the side, by the spotlights under which they were either constructing or deconstructing mysterious bits of technology. D'wane himself was in his workshop; when she stuck her head around the door he waved her in and shut the door behind them. Holding his fingers to his lips he entered a string of hot-key commands into his computer; once the screeds of text had scrolled up the screen and come to a stop several green lights came on and he finally sat back.

"Right, this room is secure now. I've managed to hack into our friends' comms at last. It makes interesting reading. They're up to several things, most low-level at the moment, but of interest to us is that they _are_ following the Russian Minister for International Development. On orders from Langley, apparently, although I still don't know why."

"I might be able to help on that," the woman said, pulling a chair over and sitting down. "I've been trawling: for the past couple of years Kaspgaz, and more specifically Gavrik himself, has been involved in some sort of negotiations with the Assad government in Syria. It pre-dates the recent events of the Arab Spring and appears to be genuinely nothing but business. _However_ , since last year, he has suddenly gained something of a retinue of shady Russian government types on his visits – mostly the same people involved in this Russia-Syria intergovernmental commission on trade, economic and scientific research - so I'm not entirely convinced that it's innocent business any more or whether he's leading it or has been used as an easy _entrée_ into Syria by his little buddy, Vladimir Vladimirovitch…"

They both thought about that for a little before D'wane shrugged.

"It may be something to do with that but we'll have to keep going to find out, as well as working out what SAD's interest in it is – the last thing any of us need is that mob going off and creating an international incident. Speaking of them, they're particular interest at the moment seems to be this woman he's been seeing, after a fashion, of late. They got an address the other day and it appears she is a Flora Jeanette MacLean Watts who lives there with her daughter and grand-daughter. That's as far as I've gone so far, so if you want to look into it your resources may be better than mine."

Brontee nodded.

"Give me the address and I will. We still don't have enough to go to Tallulah yet, do we?"

"No, I don't think so."

She sighed.

"Alright. I'll leave you to exercise your expertise while it's back to the grindstone for me."

 _Harry's Club. 22:00_

The two men – both immaculate, the stocky, fair one in his usual flawless Savile Row, the tall, dark one sporting a creation from Caraceni, his favourite Milanese tailor – had settled into a pair of comfortable, high-backed and leather-upholstered wing-back chairs in a quiet corner of one of the smaller rooms. The bottle of exclusive single malt sitting on the walnut side-table between the two chairs was half-empty while the room was almost completely so, only one other occupant in the opposite corner, a World War Two veteran from one of the ancient families who was almost totally deaf and lived in one of the few small apartments available for rent on the upper floors of the building. It was also the quiet time of the evening, between those coming in earlier for drinks after work or a meal and those who would arrive later, already generally half-cut and looking for somewhere to continue their revels.

Harry and Ilya had met there, by prior arrangement, for an evening meal and the chance to catch up. It was conveniently located between The Shard, Thames House and their respective homes (or hotel, in Ilya's case), was discrete, had half-way decent meals and, most importantly, featured a top-flight cellar. Ilya wasn't a big drinker, never had been; Harry, in the aftermath of Ruth's death, had largely lost the taste for overindulgence as well so it suited both of them to drink like connoisseurs rather than like alcoholics.

Hope was in Berlin at a meeting and wouldn't have gone with Harry even if she had been home as she loathed just about everything such places traditionally represented (even though this one had long since modernised it's beliefs and customs to magnanimously allow women members) and anyway actively encouraged the two men to continue their unlikely friendship, recognising it was good for both of them. She and Harry had also had the Russian at their place for dinner the previous evening and she had worked out something was on their visitor's mind so she had flatly refused to let the pair of them put off tonight when it had been mentioned. Her actual response had been a blunt and more than a little acerbic, _"So what else are you going to do? Sit at home on your own? Don't be bloody ridiculous: go and do your Secret Men's Business, relax and enjoy yourselves!"_

They started the evening with the usual asking after of each other's children, although there was nothing much new there: Sasha's nascent studies were at least diverting him out of his curiously passionless fugue state, to the quiet relief of his father, while Graham was finally getting close to finishing his undergraduate degree and beginning to look around for post-graduate opportunities and Catherine and Aron were finishing up in the Pacific North-West of the USA, still filming their expose on the parlous state of the world's oceans. Over the meal they moved on to broader topics, winding up with a discussion on the mediaeval labyrinth that was internal Russian politics.

Ilya had been surprisingly forthcoming about his concerns about the way things were going in his home country and city, saying much without saying anything specific, and it went a long way towards explaining to Harry why the man was spending so much time now outside of Russia and also the structural changes he was making to his businesses, changes that had started long before the fateful London visit with Elena but had recently increased pace and included devolution of his power centres away from Moscow to individual major regional centres in London, Dallas and Singapore with companies owned and incorporated in those countries. After that they had strayed into some mutually entertaining, not altogether polite, musings on the quirks inherent in dealing with the culture of the USA (Ilya had spent much of the previous Autumn as a series of business meetings in Seattle, Dallas and New York) before arriving at their post-meal whiskeys.

"So, Harry, have you thought any more about that retirement plan?" It appeared to be an idle question but it wasn't entirely; some months beforehand at a previous catch up they had strayed onto the subject, amusing each other with some patently ridiculous ideas (they _had_ been at the bottom of a second expensive bottle of red by that stage) before considering the question more seriously. Then, Ilya had admitted that he hadn't thought about it at all while Harry was starting to but had no real idea of what it might mean, only knowing that he would have to have something to do, or else go quietly mad from boredom; now, with the faintest shadow of an idea forming on the edge of his consciousness, Ilya was curious about whether anything had changed for his friend. The Englishman shrugged slightly.

"A little but to no great end yet. I'm still at the point of believing there must be more to life than this endless pursuit of evil but exactly what that may be is still to be decided, although there is a possible option in the wind." Malcolm had been on his back again recently about coming over to join him in the commercial world but he was still prevaricating, hadn't even mentioned it to his wife yet. The problem was that he could not yet see his identity disentangled from that of his job and his employer – Hope knew that, Ilya guessed it – and was half waiting for something to happen to trigger his departure.

"Perhaps you should consider it or find some other option: become a consultant, work when, where and how you wish."

"I don't know, Ilya." Harry reached over to top up their glasses one last time. "I doubt I have your head for business. However you got started – and I'm not judging you on that, you were one of many – your companies have always checked out as squeaky clean so their success must be down to your ability to run them and nothing else.

Ilya was in no way surprised by the revelation that Five had looked into his business affairs: he would have expected nothing else, and no other result. That information stolen years before by their asset – Martha Ford – would have shown nothing else, apart from his plans to decentralise which were now almost complete. He had sometimes wished he could find that woman and tell her that she was safe, even offer her the job back in one of the international bases: for all he knew that she would never accept such an offer, she had been an outstanding analyst and her loss had been keenly felt. An oblique comment made by Malcolm Wynne-Jones at their last meeting popped into his head; taking up his glass he responded,

"A joint-venture might be a possibility: still act as a consultant but underneath someone else's umbrella."

Harry looked at him sharply; that had been exactly what Malcolm had offered the last time they had discussed it.

"Anyone would think you had been talking to the Principal of Caledfwich Services!"

A faint but genuine smile flitted across the other man's face.

"Ah, now that would be telling!" Savouring the smoothness of the alcohol he became serious again. "You should do it, Harry. That particular lightning bolt may not strike twice. You will not regret it. I can vouch for the satifaction of being your own boss."

Harry inclined his head, recognising the sense in the other man's words even if he wasn't yet ready to commit to them. They continued appreciating the fineness of the single malt in silence for a little while until the Englishman glanced over at his companion and said carefully,

"What about you, Ilya? Still content with the status quo?"

There was a slightly odd tone in the other's deep voice when he finally answered, slowly.

"Perhaps...not. There is something which may be the faintest of blips on the edge of my radar, as you would say, but I cannot see it becoming any stronger."

 _In for a penny..._ Hope had been saying for some weeks that there was something on the Russian's mind and she had her ideas about what it might be. Harry had been disinclined to believe her but that comment confirmed that she might well be right and this was an opportunity to find out.

"Something? Or someone?"

Ilya was surprised and then not; observation was part of their stock in trade, after all, and in the new world order that was this most unlikely of friendships there was really only one subject that was off-limits, a subject that neither of them had the slightest inclination to even think about, although her bones rattled faintly from their distant, shadowy corner every now and then. His eyes were hooded as he stared over the top of his glass for a moment; taking another sip he answered honestly.

"The latter. Although I may be wrong in my interpretation of how she feels: after what happened how can I ever trust my own judgment again when I could not see what was right under my nose for almost forty years? Business is one thing but this..."

The rattling bones were obviously still a very sore point but Harry understood perfectly what the older man meant: he himself had felt exactly the same in those long days, weeks and months after the day both women had died, constantly questioning his own judgement on just about everything he had ever done but had eventually forced his way through it, the last dregs being permanently washed away by Hope's arrival in his life. With this understanding he went on, aware he was skating on very thin ice.

"I think you're being a bit harsh on yourself, Ilya Andreivitch. No-one saw through that one, with the possible exception of Jim Coaver and even he didn't know anything specific. I certainly hadn't, and didn't."

To his slight surprise Ilya accepted the words without demur. Instead, wearily, he murmured,

"It was different for you two. You were not living with her." Leaning back against the seat he added, "In any case, even if I am wrong about this lady, how can I explain what happened and then expect to keep her? No, it is easier to remain at a distance."

"Except you're not: at a distance, that is," Harry put in shrewdly. "Hope is inclined to think that you're already more attached than you want to be and fretting about it and I believe she is right. I agree, it would take someone special but they do exist – I know that, now – and you shouldn't give up on it just because you made one error of judgement."

The other man's words were arid.

"It only needed to be one when it was of that scale." He picked up his glass again and swirled the remains of the amber fluid, watching the soft light glow through the liquid before adding with a wry half-smile, relaxing again, "Listen to us. Two old men speaking of the past as though it still matters and of the future over which we have no control. Instead we should be living in the present, enjoying what we can while we can, such as this excellent whiskey." Raising his glass to his former enemy he continued, "I have an early meeting tomorrow and then the dinner but there is always time for one more drink with friends!"

They clinked glasses and Harry suddenly grinned his rare, sunny smile.

" _That_ is the most sensible thing either of us has said tonight!"

It was almost eleven by the time they sent the dregs of the whiskey away and elected to go for a walk to clear their heads as the evening was surprisingly mild and neither were ready to retire for the night. Turning east on Pall Mall, they weren't entirely alone but the streets were hardly busy, either, making for a pleasant change from the usual day-time crush of residents and visitors. As they walked their conversation again turned to the troubling developments in Ilya's homeland, particularly those relating to the President's ever more public adoption of the sort of ultra-nationalism that had been the hallmark of RussiaFirst, only now propped up with the power of the State. After they had dealt with Mikhail Levrov and his organisation Putin was continuing to follow up by removing any other opposition leader or party that looked like even a remote threat and was also clamping down on the press and the arts to ensure that no-one would be getting any message that he himself hadn't approved.

As they turned the corner into Cockspur Street a young couple, she fair and he dark, giggling and absorbed in each other, cut across the road ahead of them, gaining no apparent attention from the two men apart from momentary irritation. Ilya admitted to being even more gloomy about the immediate future of Russia than he had been on his first, fateful, visit to Harry's house in 2011, now that his former subordinate becoming more anti-Western with each passing day and starting to show symptoms of expansionist fever, with increasing references to the 'recovery' of stolen Russian 'heartlands' such as Crimea and Ukraine.

"It does make you wonder if removing Levrov's organisation so completely was such a good idea," the Russian finally said quietly, to which Harry snorted and clapped his friend on the shoulder.

"I know it was, for the reasons we did it. As for your President, from this side of the fence I suspect all we did was accelerate a process he had planned all along. Would you disagree?"

Skirting the southern end of Trafalgar Square and negotiating the traffic to, first, the Charles I statue and then to the top of Northumberland Avenue took most of their attention for a minute or two and it wasn't until they were again moving downhill under the trees that Ilya finally answered.

"No. No, I would not. He is often presented in the West as being either a fool or a ruthless thug but make no mistake: Vladimir Vladimirovitch is ruthless and a thug when it suits him but he is no fool. He calculates every move he makes as part of his over-all strategy to maintain control at home, and that includes the recent turn from his original neo-liberal realism to nationalism and Orthodoxy after the protests last year, and is very good at manipulating people to gain his ends." The deep voice stopped for a moment as he thought about that; eventually he continued reflectively, "He learned that much well while he was in Dresden, for all he was not a very good intelligence officer."

It was proving to be an interesting evening's discussion and here Ilya had presented Harry with an opening to explore something else he had always been curious about.

"That's how you came to know him so well: when you were his senior officer in Dresden?"

"Of course. Then and afterwards. In Germany he was pudgy, lazy and struggling with his job so I took him under my wing. He was never going to be a good field agent so was quite disillusioned, drinking too much and taking his frustrations out on his wife with his fists so I thought to improve his self-esteem in the hope that he would clean up the rest of his life."

"Obviously he did," Harry responded drily, thinking with mild derision of the Russian leader's propensity nowadays for presenting himself as a shirt-off action man. Ilya smiled briefly, knowing exactly what the other man was thinking.

"Eventually. He took it for friendship at the time and has continued of that mind since, particularly since I provided advice to him when he reorganised the FSB in 2000. It has proven useful as he tends to leave me and my company alone."

Harry knew, now, that Ilya had been involved in the construction of the FSB after the collapse of the KGB and its successor, the FSK, and had remained as a consultant to their training arm for many years afterwards, apparently on his own terms: the relationship with Putin explained how he had been able to exercise that prerogative, at least in part.

"And now? Have things changed now that he is increasingly taking on the mantle of autocrat, if not dictator?"

"Yes and no. One has to be more careful but it is a two-way relationship: the President is at least as reliant upon the goodwill of the business elite as we are upon his goodwill towards us, if not more so, particularly those of us involved in joint ventures with the government or who sit on the boards of government industries. I am not yet concerned but, as you know, have taken steps to protect my personal interests."

The Thames had hove into view, the railway and Golden Jubilee bridges rearing up to the left with the twinkling lights of buildings on the southern bank reflecting in the dark water and making a backdrop to the spectacular circle of The Eye, static at this hour of the night. The giggling couple were off to the left, canoodling under the arches of the rail bridge and no longer giggling, being too wrapped up in each other; a lone vehicle, dark and quiet, purred past and turned right out of view. Their pace slowed and then stopped for a moment on the corner of Northumberland and the Embankment to allow a taxi to pass in front of them; while they were waiting Ilya said quietly,

"Harry. The person we were discussing earlier: I will be taking her to the dinner tomorrow night as my plus-one."

His younger companion led the way across the road to the pavement of the Victoria Embankment before replying,

"You must already think highly of her then, taking her into that crowd."

"I do but—"

"I've been considering our discussion and I wonder if you actually have to tell her anything apart from the official story."

Turning right on the upper pavement Ilya sighed and shook his head. He had thought about it but dismissed the option immediately.

"No, Harry, that will not be possible. I prefer to deal in the truth these days, it is so much easier than maintaining a legend, but there is another problem: I cannot lie to her because of _who_ she is."

They were walking slowly westwards now, two shades in the deeper, dappled, restless shadows of the trees and pale street lights over head, the river its eternal, unchanging, shimmering self to their left and only a couple of other hardy souls visible in the dark; slowing, the Englishmen asked, puzzled,

"I can't see how her identity matters."

"It is more her daughter's identity than her own. And it is also why you should know before tomorrow night, although I do not believe there will be any issues there."

They came to a stop opposite Horse Guards Avenue and Harry shook his head.

"It is too late at night, we have both had at least one drink too many and now _you_ are being too obscure, Ilya Andreivitch. Pray tell: what is the big mystery?"

Ilya leaned on the concrete barrier and gazed out into the dark water where a police boat was making its leisurely way up river.

"It is Jean. Jean Watts. The mother of your Section Chief." He felt rather than saw Harry's eyes turn to him in a moment of surprise before he turned to face him. "Now do you understand why there is no option but the truth?"

 _Shit!_ Did he ever. In a moment of clarity he suddenly understood something else as well: why Erin had been a little off her game, distracted, at points over the past few weeks.

"That does make a difference to the situation." Given his history with women, he really didn't know what to say: even if he himself had ended up in that place he wouldn't have known where to go next. Thinking about it for a moment he considered what Hope would likely have said. "My wife would say that you have two options: one is to cut the relationship off now, without explanation, and leave Jean spending the rest of her life wondering exactly what sort of a bastard you are. The other, if you are of a mind to take things further, is to tell her everything – sooner rather than later – and let her make her own decision. You won't be able to predict the outcome so don't try. Both options have the risk of having the same result – everything ending – but at least the second one gives you the chance that things might go the other way instead." He sighed briefly. "At the professional level there is no problem: I employ her daughter, not Jean, and you are now a personal friend, nothing else so if you two wish to get to know each other then there are no official impediments."

There was nothing else he could think of to say and Ilya was clearly still struggling with his thoughts so he turned his back to the river and stretched out his leg, easing the old knee injury which was making its presence known. After another half-minute's silence he asked quietly, eyes on the pale face of the Ministry of Defence building opposite,

"Ilya, you are aware that you're being followed, aren't you?"

A brief smile flitted over the Russian's hard face, softening it slightly as he left his dilemma alone and returned to grounds that they both knew well.

"Yes, of course. Which ones have you noticed?"

Without removing his attention from the building he replied,

"The dark coloured car that followed us from the club and then went past back on the corner. It's now parked up ahead, in front of the River Boats dock."

"Correct. And?"

"The young couple, who are now ahead of us on the lower level."

"Very good." He said no more so Harry finally asked,

"Do you know who it is?"

"No, not yet. I have my people looking into it."

"Let me know if I can help."

"Thank you. I shall."

Taking a punt, Harry continued on with hardly a break.

"This isn't to do with whatever it is that you are involved with in Syria, is it?"

The dark eyes slid towards him for a moment, a glint of amusement in them, before returning to their watery contemplation.

"Is that a personal question or a fishing trip for our friends at Vauxhall Cross?"

"I gave up doing Six's dirty work around the same time that you gave up doing the same for the KGB," was the dry response. "No, it's strictly personal curiosity, although if it gives me a chance to be one-up on that pillock who currently runs Legoland, even if he doesn't know it, then all the better!"

Ilya actually laughed at that, all too familiar with inter-departmental politics.

"Then it will be my pleasure although for your ears only. I do not know as yet but it would seem likely. However, if they think I am involved in the current backstage military negotiations they are wrong. I have been doing business in Damascus for many years; Moscow used that, along with one or two of my compatriots, to set up the current Intergovernmental Commission with one eye towards protecting our naval base at Tartus and another on the long-term post-war reconstruction phase of the Syrian economy. If, of course, it ever gets that far."

Harry wasn't entirely convinced that Ilya was telling him everything but was content that it was probably most of it; Ilya knew he wasn't telling the Englishman everything in detail but that everything that was important had been covered. His commercial in confidence information was not relevant even though it was the military hardware arm of his business that was involved but there really was nothing else to tell: although he had been asked, almost pressured, into joining the military discussions he had refused, as he suspected things were going to get much worse, for much longer, before it even looked like getting better and he had zero interest in getting bogged down in that particular shit-fight.

Harry voiced similar sentiments almost as Ilya thought them; before the Russian could respond the young 'couple', giggling again, chased each other along the lower pathway before coming to a halt in the shadows of a tree about a hundred metres west of the older men; Ilya shook his head and sighed again.

"What is happening with training standards these days, Harry? You or I would not have got through, nor would have let any of our trainees graduate, had we been so obvious. All of the old skills are being lost."

Turning back to face the river Harry nodded.

"I know. If they were any of mine I would be decommissioning them first thing in the morning for such amateur efforts!"

Pushing themselves off their observation post they turned towards Westminster and began to walk again, entertaining themselves by noting off the errors the watchers were making and by predicting, generally accurately, what their next actions would be. As they passed the RAF Memorial Ilya pulled out his phone and fired off a rapid text; at Harry's raised eyebrow enquiry he explained with what appeared to be a fair degree of devilry in his face,

"I have just asked my driver to meet us near the corner. If we slow down a little he should be here in time to park either in front of or behind our friends in the dark car."

The Englishman let out a guffaw.

"I like your thinking!"

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _Today dragged, just like yesterday. Only there was no relieving mid-morning phone call today to break the tedium as we were both far too busy. Much as I'm fond of my students there are quite a lot of bits of the education process that I could happily turn over to other people these days, and that includes lecturing the first years. As if spending all day yesterday marking assignments wasn't bad enough… We managed to text on and off all day but they were few and far between as he was incommunicado most of the time but we talked for a little while earlier this evening before he went out to catch up with Harry and I had to return to my pile of papers. I'm looking forward to tomorrow night (despite my daughter's best efforts to put me off – if she's not going to tell me what the big secret is then I'm just going to continue the way we are): Ilya has warned me it may be a little boring but I don't care, it will be an evening with him and without assays to mark!_

Erin's Diary:

I've spent the past couple of days trying the softly-softly approach to dissuading Mum about continuing to see Gavrik but she's not interested in listening. She's realistic enough to know that he's not perfect but then she doesn't know the half of it, does she. And now I worry what it means that he is taking her to this dinner tomorrow night: it is no small thing, no matter haw he might have sold it to her – for God's sake, Royalty will be there, as well as senior politicians – and I wonder if this is more than it seems, if it's some sort of public debut of them as a couple, in his mind if not in hers. Although I have no evidence that it's any more than the friendship that she continues to claim. Damn Hope for being so lovely and making Rosie's day by asking her to be her flower-girl, then Mum wouldn't have been there and would never have met the accursed man.

Ilya's Journal:

The evening spent with Harry was as instructive and entertaining as ever. I often think it is a pity we were on opposite sides for so long but the way it has developed at least means there are no secrets between us which can make some things easier to discuss. One of those subjects arose tonight in the form of Jean. We did not cover much detail but what he said was sensible and gave me a little hope for the future. He also noticed the watchers, who were more obvious than ever tonight and that is giving me pause for thought as to who they are: they may not care that I know of their presence but applying the same attitude to a senior MI5 officer is of concern. Always assuming that they knew who he is.


	6. Chapter 6

6\. London, Tuesday 10 December 2013

 _Stamford Brook, 18:45_

Erin and Dimitri were in the kitchen preparing dinner and Rosie was watching television in the front half of the double reception room while Jean was finishing her toilette two storeys up. The younger woman was clearly in a bad mood, had been all afternoon (to the extent that Harry had drawn her aside, after she had snapped at Waleed and Calum one time too often, and quietly told her to settle down), but was trying to restrain it while Rosie was around.

"I don't know what else I can say to get the message through," she muttered to her partner while she was chopping vegetables with more than a little enthusiasm and he was preparing the meat. Already over her developing obsession he replied patiently,

"Try not saying anything for a change. The more you push the subject the more she digs her heels in. Just like you. And Rosie, for that matter. So how about the softly-softly approach? Or how about not worrying about it at all: it's her life and by our age whatever she does isn't going to make much difference to us."

His tone was perfectly reasonable but all it did was irritate Erin.

"Easy for you to say, it's not your mother," she grumbled.

"Maybe but it's still the truth. And watch what you're doing with that knife before you chop a finger off."

A clouded silence followed for a minute or so before she came back to the subject, worrying away at it like a dog at a bone.

"You know, she actually told me again this morning that they're just friends, that she's going tonight to keep him company. And then, just like Sunday and yesterday, seemed to spend most of the day either exchanging texts or talking on the phone to him. 'Just friends'. As if. You know who's going to be there tonight: would _you_ take someone who was just a friend 'to keep you company' if you were the guest of bloody honour?"

Dimitri shrugged and turned the tap on to wash his hands.

"Maybe. Probably, if I'd been to dozens of these things before and was bored stiff with going on my own. And I think you're exaggerating about the amount of comms: your mother at least was at work all day yesterday and today and I can't see him taking time off during business hours." Wiping his hands on the dishcloth he added, "Anyway, you'll have to leave it for now, I can hear her coming down the stairs." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Try to maintain the peace, at least for tonight."

Clicking heels on a wooden floor heralded Jean's arrival down the hallway.

"How do I look?"

"Beautiful, Jean, you'll slay them!" the young man said with an admiring wink. She had hauled an outfit that she had only worn once before out of the end of her wardrobe on Sunday, after Ilya had asked her to accompany him, and was relieved that it still fit: a simple oyster grey fitted knee-length sheath dress in a slightly stiff, heavy silk, appliquéd with lace of the same shade up each side and topped by a slim, elegantly tailored bolero jacket, she had matched it with the Art Deco platinum, diamond and sapphire necklace, earrings and brooch set that had been her twentieth wedding anniversary present from her late husband, dark blue shoes and a small, ruby coloured clutch for a splash of contrasting colour.

"Thank you, Dee."

"You look lovely, Mum." Erin could at least be genuine about that comment, and was happy to see her mother happy but if only it had been for some other reason or involved any other man on the planet.

Rosie, hearing their voices, had wandered out from the front room and came to a stop in front of Jean, eyes wide as she took in the unfamiliar vision.

"Nanna, are you going somewhere?"

"Hello, Poppet. Yes, just for dinner."

The child put two and two together immediately and asked wistfully,

"Are you going with Ilya?"

"Yes, I am. In fact, he's going to be here any minute to pick me up."

Rosie's solemn blue eyes grew wide and were inflected with hope.

"Can I say hello when he gets here?"

Her tone was slightly wheedling but although she wanted to agree Jean glanced up at Erin, whose lips had thinned a little at the mention of the Russian.

"Maybe. You'll have to ask your mum."

"Mum, can—"

"No. You need to go and clean up before dinner."

"But—"

"No buts."

The girl look mutinous but suddenly turned on her heel and flounced back towards the front room and the television. Jean decided to say nothing more; checking the clock she said,

"He'll be here about now. I'll go and wait at the door."

Dimitri waved her off with a cheerful,

"Enjoy yourself!" while Erin followed her down the short hallway before peeling off into the front room to take up station by the window looking out over their small, paved courtyard, just in time to see the black Lexus glide into view. _The man was nothing if not punctual_ , she admitted to herself grudgingly, as her mother, also spotting the vehicle, made one last check of her makeup in the mirror.

The tall figure emerged immediately and into the glare of the security lights as he moved past the front fence which was exactly when Jean opened the front door and moved onto the small porch. He saw the movement and its cause and suddenly produced a smile which changed his face completely. Erin had always been inclined to think he looked like an Easter Island _moai_ at best and reptilian at worst but now she saw someone completely different, a man with a warm smile that lit up his eyes and softened his entire face as he gazed at his companion for the evening. She was so surprised at the revelation that she failed to notice her daughter quietly sneak out until the girl appeared outside, running past Jean towards her friend and calling his name. His smile changed to an indulgent delight as Rosie came to a stop and they exchanged their usual greeting, albeit with a modified handshake due to her cast. Erin watched with a high degree of disbelief as her daughter held out her left hand and said primly,

"Hello, Ilya," and he in turn crouched down to her level, replied,

"Hello, Miss Rosie," and they formally shook hands before Rosie broke out in a grin, threw her functional arm around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. He responded with a gentle peck and a quick, heartfelt hug in return before letting her go and standing up again, at which point Erin's disbelief turned to a stunned incredulity as the man looked straight at her and gave what appeared to all intents and purposes to be a slightly helpless apology. _How the hell…he was outside, in the full glare of the security lights, she was inside, behind lace curtains in a dimly lit room and he had still noticed her watching…_ Something of a shiver went down her spine: she knew, intellectually, that Ilya was an old-school master spy of Harry's ilk but this was the first glimpse she had got of the freakish ability to know who was watching and from where that both men apparently shared.

"Hello, Jean."

"Ilya." The adults exchanged a friendly greeting that Erin couldn't fault for being anything more before Rosie started talking to the man again. _That was enough of that._ Her mother's involvement was bad enough, she had to nip Rosie's infatuation in the bud before it got any worse. Moving to the open front door she called sharply,

"Rosie, that's enough. I told you to go upstairs and clean up for dinner."

The child stopped her prattle and looked around, as did the older couple. The Russian inclined his head slightly towards Erin.

"Miss Watts."

Voice and manner were courtly; she couldn't help herself responding in kind with a somewhat frosty,

"Minister."

 _Deja-vu_ hit her like a slap in the face as she suddenly had a vision of Ilya and Elena as she had first seen them at the reception superimposed over the real man and her mother. It was disconcerting in more ways than one: she really didn't need any more reminders of the events of Spring 2011 than seeing him again at the wedding had already triggered but there was another level of something that felt like confusion or bewilderment overlying that this evening. It was clearly the same man and yet it was not: he had always grated on her in the past because of his supercilious air before what had happened in that bunker but now there were enough subtle differences to make her wonder. The arrogance seemed to be absent, at least in his attitude towards her mother and her daughter, and physically, despite sporting an extremely snappy suit, there was something of a more casually elegant air about the way he now carried himself, along with the sort of always-present fearsome competence that she normally associated with Harry. She supposed that seeing your entire life splintered into motes of dust in the space of a few minutes would be enough to completely remake anyone, she just hadn't really expected that to apply to Ilya Gavrik.

Whatever the case the _deja-vu_ was gone as fast as it had arrived as his deep tones snapped her back to the present. He was talking to Rosie again, telling her she should listen to what her mother said and firmly but kindly directing the child back to the house. Before she could say anything the older couple were moving back to the car; Ilya opened the near-side door and ushered Jean inside before moving to the other side to where his chauffeur was waiting and joining her with a final wave to the girl.

"You were very good with Rosie."

He demurred graciously.

"She is a good child."

"You wouldn't say that if you saw her throwing a tantrum."

He smiled at her and had to resist the temptation to take her hand in his.

"Very likely not." She was looking particularly lovely tonight, he thought, in her timeless silk suit, hair pulled back into a graceful chignon and her usual understated makeup which accentuated her eyes. He hadn't realised until tonight, when he had seen them both together, how much the daughter took after the mother, although Jean was taller and no longer quite as slender but he found he preferred that. Before Elena his girlfriends had (with the singular exception of the tall and elegant, newly-graduated Kirov ballerina Galina Mezentseva, with whom he had had a wonderful eighteen months when they were both very young and who was still a good friend) always been curvaceous; now, in what was probably a back-lash against his former wife or simply a return to his younger self, he was finding Jean very pleasing to the eye in addition to being his intellectual equal.

"Beautiful suit, by the way. It looks new."

She tested the fabric of his lapels between her fingers as she spoke; as expected, it was exquisite. Her heart had done a stupid flip again – as was apparently going to be usual, despite her efforts otherwise – when she had seen him, tall and elegant in the deep charcoal suit of perfect cut and fit, walking up the path and then it repeated the action when the smile in his eyes reached his lips, triggering one of her own in return.

"It is. I picked it up yesterday. My first Savile Row suit, made by a young lady who was recently recommended to me by a business associate of mine and friend of Harry's. He said she was outstanding; I believe he right."

They continued to chat lightly as they returned to the car and during the trip to Claridges, the venue for the evening. Whatever she was expecting when they walked into the French Salon and its associated Drawing Room, it wasn't the arrival they got. It seemed all arrivals were being announced, including themselves, and three small words struck her with a degree of horror:

"Ladies and gentlemen, our guest of honour, the Russian Minister for International Development, Mr Ilya Gavrik, and Mrs Jean Watts."

' _Guest of honour'_? _He could have warned her!_ She had thought they were just going along to the Christmas function for the Russo-British Chamber of Commerce (a group she had never heard of before Sunday, when he had called her in the morning and asked her to accompany him: she had ended up looking for them on the web) as ordinary guests. Now it turned out he was the most important guest in the room and absolutely _everyone_ was looking at them. Talk about making a public debut…she would get him for that, somehow, one day!

At first glance she recognised a few faces: Prince and Princess Michael of Kent, the Prince present in his capacity as the RBCC Patron; Foreign Secretary William Hague and his broadcaster wife, Ffion; Ilya's equivalent, their own Secretary for International Development, Justine Greening; Board of Trade President and Secretary for Business Innovation Vince Cabel and wife Rachel and the Russian Ambassador and his wife, Aleksandr and Nana Yakovenko. There were many others that she didn't know but to whom she would be introduced, including other members of the RBCC, and a plethora of British and Russian business leaders. Nervous for the first minute or two she soon found herself side-tracked by watching other guest's reactions to her companion and that kept her diverted for much of the rest of the night.

It was a pleasant evening: the company was mixed and entertaining, the food was excellent, she found herself seated next to Prince Michael at the head table, with the Prince's wife, the glamorous if controversial German-Hungarian former Baroness Marie-Christine von Reibnitz, on the other side of Ilya, and the man himself was carefully attentive all evening, making sure she wasn't left on her own for too long at any given time. She was grateful for that, not only because she preferred his company to anyone else's but because when she was on her own she found that anyone she was talking to tended to veer very quickly towards the personal, trying to work out exactly what was her relationship with the guest-of-honour. She knew it was normal human curiosity but it still irked her, the assumptions…

The staff moved around unobtrusively all evening, unnoticed by everyone, as was the normal state of affairs for these things. One of them, a young man in his late twenties with dark, wavy hair pulled back into a short pony-tail, neat beard and intense, dark eyes, was quietly stewing under his professional exterior. William Holloway, generally known as Will, had recently returned from an undercover mission in Bradford which he had only just got away with after he went seriously off-piste, disobeying Harry's direct orders, and nearly got himself, a couple of assets and several civilians killed. His over-enthusiasm and inclination to take risks, coupled with a maverick streak that reminded Harry far too much of himself at the same age and therefore scared the older man half to death, had already earned him a rebuke from the fearsome Head of Section D; Bradford saw him demoted from front line active duty for the foreseeable future so he was here as a form of punishment, tasked with keeping an eye on what went on and who was doing what to and with whom. With the exception of Harry's good friend, the Russian Minister, of course.

That was something the young man was never going to work out. Harry's exploits against the KGB were, along with his hatred of the CIA, legendary and yet not only had he had a life-long friend who had been a CIA director but he was also known to be close to Ilya Gavrik, oligarch, politician, international business leader, associate of Vladimir Putin, former KGB Colonel and FSB Lieutenant-General and tonight's guest of honour. Or so the whispers in the back corridors of Thames House went. It all went back to Berlin in the 1980s, apparently, and had altered forever somewhere east of London in the Spring of 2011. No-one knew the details of the latter operation or how much truth was in any of the gossip, although the same chatter suggested that his Section Chief, their senior field agent and Calum, their senior techie, had been there and knew exactly what the truth was. Not that anyone was game enough to ask again, no matter how intense their curiosity, after he himself had tried to get it out of Calum and been met with an iron mask that would have done Harry himself proud and a flat, hard,

"That is _way_ above your pay grade. If you want to have a career in Five then make sure you never ask about it again."

Whatever it had been it was big. Will himself had seen the change, when Harry had gone from being the man he had known all his life to being a hollow shell and had only returned to normality, or a new form of it, in the last twelve months, after he had met and very recently married Hope Johnson. _Not that_ _that_ _had mellowed him at work,_ Will thought, taking a quick break with the other staff while Gavrik gave his short, surprisingly amusing, speech for the evening, _or not when it came to staff who screwed up._ He knew his current status was his own fault but he also slightly resented that a man who had made his career on brilliant, rogue moves of his own could now be something of a stickler for the rules, for junior agents at least. Although Erin had pointed out to him that, on more than one occasion, once Harry knew he could trust you he would let you get away with almost anything. The hard part was earning that trust in the first place and so far Will wasn't quite there. Not least because of their personal relationship: it was _because_ Harry had known Will since the day he was born and had been friends with both parents before that, had been with Will's father on the black op in Berlin in the eighties that had seen Holloway senior shot dead by the Stasi, that Harry was being harder on him than most, Erin had said.

"Gee, it's nice to have a breather, isn't it?" another member of the wait-staff, a young red-headed university student, murmured as she rested against the wall next to him. She had caught his eye early this evening, not only because she was rather pretty and her accent beguiling, but because she had been hovering rather too assiduously around Gavrik. So far he hadn't spotted anything else of interest; this one was being careful, but not careful enough in her movements. She claimed to be Canadian but the accent didn't quite fit so he assumed that she was his CIA equivalent, here to keep an eye on things but obviously with a focus on the Russian minister. He would keep watching her for the rest of the night and then let the rest of them know back on the Grid tomorrow. If it was important he knew Calum had a contact or two inside Grosvenor Square so it would get followed up fast enough.

He wondered if she was here as punishment as well so for fun engaged her in apparently light conversation for the next few minutes but to no particular benefit. She was either telling the truth or word-perfect in her cover, he wasn't sure which, but it didn't stop his gut feeling that she was more than she seemed. The speech ended rather more quickly than he expected and it was back to being all-hands-on-deck to serve the rest of the meal. For the rest of the evening he kept an eye on the red-head and was satisfied that he was correct: she was rarely out of sight of Gavrik and, interestingly, was never out of sight of the woman he was with.

Will had not really thought about that aspect until nearly the end of the evening, when guests were starting to leave, including the Russian and his partner, who appeared to be among the most devoted of pairs in the room. Momentarily keeping an eye on the red-head in the giant mirror over the marble fireplace, he saw William and Charlotte Towers talking to the other couple in the background, apparently taking their leave; something about the way the other woman turned her head and a fleeting expression on her face suddenly made the penny drop with a very loud clang as he remembered her name. _Oh, holy— I wonder if Harry knows that Erin's_ _mother_ _is here on the arm of his former adversary? She's got to be Erin's mum… And if I'm right, why is the CIA involved in watching the pair of them?_ Of course Harry knew, the young man decided, turning around so he could directly watch the American discretely follow the group towards the exit; that was almost inevitably the real reason why he was here. He was going to have to tell him but it would have to be somewhere other than the morning meeting tomorrow. He was in enough trouble as it was without earning Erin's enmity as well.

Out on the street both vehicles were waiting for their passengers. The Home Secretary and his wife wasted no time in lingering farewells, departing quickly under Jean's appraising gaze while their own car eased forward to stop in front of them. Ilya, as was his habit, courteously opened the door for her before moving around to the other side to join her and they made themselves comfortable as the car began to move. Within moments Jean tapped the man on the arm and said,

"I've got a bone to pick with you, Sir." She got an enquiring look in return that was only very slightly alarmed and continued, " _Guest of Honour_? You could have let that one slip before we walked in the front door!"

"I did not think it important," he protested mildly, a smile lurking in his eyes. "The business part of the night was merely an excuse for the rest of the evening, I am sure you understood that."

"Oh, I got that alright." She grinned back and relaxed back against the seat as the soft multi-coloured lights of the late evening city outside glided past silently. "It just might have been nice to be prepared for the scrutiny when we walked in!" Softening her tone she added truthfully, "As a matter of fact it was all absolutely fascinating so thank you, I've enjoyed myself immensely."

The smile in his eyes made it to the rest of his face.

"I am glad. Was there anything particular?"

"Oh, just people watching. Who's playing games with whom, who's friends, who's enemies, who's on the make, who's bored stiff and didn't want to be there." Her eyes, dark blue in this light, slid sideways to meet his. "You elicit some interesting reactions…"

He didn't look remotely surprised at that, instead replied lightly,

"Do I?" _He had forgotten, tonight, that she was a psychologist so her observations might be interesting._

"Oh yes. Respect, of course, and you had a couple of genuine friends there. Also quite a bit of wariness and uncertainty and there were at least two people who absolutely loathe you!"

He laughed quietly and named some names.

"Yes, that would be them. No surprise there, then?"

"No. The last one has never forgiven me for providing a better option to BTG plc and winning the joint-venture operation instead of him. It is just business but some people take these things personally."

"That they do," she agreed philosophically. A friendly silence fell for a minute or two as they both thought about the night; Jean, slightly emboldened by the good wine and an evening of excellent company, decided to conduct a little experiment to test the strength of their self-imposed taboo against personal contact. Relaxing against him, she allowed her head to drop onto his shoulder and was quietly delighted when he leaned his cheek against the top of her head, possessing himself of her hand at the same time. Lacing her fingers through his and squeezing gently she murmured,

"You really must tell me what you did to the Home Secretary one day. His response was the most fascinating of the lot: wariness, respect, something that looked like reluctance mixed with a bit of fear and, most of all, stress and extreme embarrassment!"

Ilya's heart almost stopped at that until he heard the low thrum of amusement in her rich voice. She could not know about that phone call from the bunker or anything else related to that day, although before much longer she would have to; for the moment, he would keep it simple.

"Oh, it was nothing much. He was about to make a decision on behalf of your government which would not have been welcomed by my government; I merely suggested he reconsider, which he did." No need to mention that the repercussions may well have resulted in war had Towers ignored his order to abort the mission to shoot down the unarmed Russian airliner… He wasn't going back down that path again, not tonight, not when he was seated so close to a woman he was finding more absorbing with each passing day, her head on his shoulder and her hand in his. If this was all he ever achieved with Jean – which surely it would be, once she found out the truth – then so be it, he was going to savour every moment of it.

Jean was of much the same opinion. The problem with going out with a former spy was that it was nominally impossible to work out what they were really thinking, hence her little experiment earlier. She was sure he was interested in more than just friendship but had almost no evidence to back up her gut feel so was half inclined to wonder if it was wishful thinking on her part; his automatic response to her actions earlier, too fast and natural to have really been thought about, gave her hope so she would be content with that for tonight and intended to stay exactly where she was for as long as possible. Stroking the fabric of his suit arm with her free hand she murmured,

"The suit was gaining a bit of attention, too. There were quite a few envious glances; you'll have to let your Savile Row gal know!"

"Her name is Kathryn Sargent and I will although I must take you at your word regarding the attention…"

Their quiet conversation continued until they reached Jean's house fifteen minutes later. Neither had moved although Ilya had considered putting an arm around her but, with regrets, didn't; Jean had wished he would but then decided it was probably better if he didn't, as he was going home tomorrow and she didn't know when he would be back. Or even how much they would be in touch, if at all. Neither dared to directly look at the other because they were old enough to know where that would lead and now was not the time no matter what they might have desired.

Finally it had to end. As they rolled to a seamless halt in front of Jean's three storey, pale grey terrace house they took a final few moments of closeness while the chauffeur got out, checked the street and moved to open Jean's door. Ilya was out and around by the time Jean had swung her legs out, offering his hand to assist her up; with a quiet word of thanks to the driver she got to her feet and slowly walked with him the few steps to her small porch, out of the glare of the security lights but still in sight of the cameras. As for their entry into the fray at Claridges the man had an arm half around her, his hand on the small of her back; this time, she had allowed herself to briefly rest her arm around his waist but once they reached the door they turned to face each other and he took both her hands in his and gently kissed one and then the other.

"Thank you, Jean. Your company tonight has meant more to me than you can know." It was true; he had attended a great many of these functions but had been finding them increasingly tedious and pointless of late. Tonight had been an entirely different matter and it was solely down to his companion. She gave a smile and said cheerfully, to cover her madly beating heart,

"Oh, any time! You know I enjoy myself whenever we catch up."

He smiled at that.

"Well, if that is the case, do you have any plans for Thursday of next week?"

That was a pleasant surprise.

"No. Will you be back that soon? I thought we weren't seeing you again until January some time."

"Yes, but just a flying visit. I now have to go to the US to finalise a business deal on Wednesday and have today been invited to attend the opening of the new laboratory with my joint-venture partners at BTG in Camberley so I will be in town on Thursday night. I thought that perhaps we could go to the theatre, if you wish, or some other thing if not."

"The theatre would be lovely, dear heart. I would happily go out for dinner to the local kebab shop with you, you know that. Although I may draw the line at McDonalds or KFC…"

He suddenly grinned.

"That is a line I would happily draw!" Kissing her hands again he added, "I will book something and let you know," before kissing both cheeks as was their normal farewell.

"No, don't tell me any details, just what time and the dress code. Make it a surprise!"

"Very well, _pchelka_. I will Skype you tomorrow evening."

"Make sure that you do."

He released her hands, reluctantly, and returned to the car, waiting as usual until she had given him a final wave and closed her front door before giving the chauffeur the word to head for home. At least it looked like no-one had followed them tonight. As they drove, he allowed his mind to drift between the evening and possible futures that he would like to see but as they got closer to the hotel Harry's words from the previous night floated to the surface again, attempting to force him to confront reality but to no avail. For once, the man who had made a career of cold logic and meticulous planning was at a loss, faced by a decision he didn't want to make. He already knew which way he was leaning but tonight the only decision he could face was a totally uncharacteristic one: he wouldn't make one, not yet.

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _Just got back from the big business dinner. I was mildly terrified when I saw who was there but he just laughed and said it was only schmoozing and I should just be myself then took my arm and we sallied into the fray. It wasn't too bad in the end and he was very attentive all evening, making sure I wasn't feeling out of things. Everyone assumed that I'm his lady-friend, of course and even when I corrected them I could see they didn't believe me so I gave up commenting at all after a while. I don't know, maybe I am his lady-friend, after a fashion. I would certainly like to be. He had to network a little, of course, but he didn't leave me on my own for too long at any given time. The Home Secretary was giving me calculating looks a lot of the time and eventually came over to be introduced and said he recognised me from somewhere. Harry's wedding, of course, so I reminded him of it and could see the penny drop so I hope I haven't also dropped Erin into it. I was rather hoping for a kiss goodnight but it didn't happen, he's still being rather restrained. We did hold hands all the way home in the car, though, and he kissed my hand again when we were at the door so there's hope yet!_

Erin's Diary:

I don't know why I bother: she did go out with the Minister tonight to the big business do and I still suspect that this means he's getting serious. She constantly maintains they're just friends but this (not only do I knowwho was there but also what it was about and it was no cosy Christmas dinner among friends), on top of the constant texting and phone calls over the past few days suggest the opposite, although they've only known each other for a month. And she was absolutely glowing when she came home tonight. To be fair, I was watching when he arrived to pick her up and if he's faking being pleased to see her, or Rosie, when that girl sneaked out behind my back to say hello to him, then he's doing a bloody good job. Which he may well be but I don't think I've ever seen that man with a genuine smile before tonight and it does make a difference. He knew I was watching, of course, I saw him clock me through the curtains, but the smile was there before that, as soon as he got out of the car, and he wasn't looking at anything else then, just Mum. I'm going to have to tell her, before it goes on much longer.

Ilya's Journal:

The dinner went very well, helped in no small part by Jeannie. She is a natural at all of this, despite her nerves. I am in a quandary on that subject: I would very much like to progress our relationship but fear to do so because of events in the recent past. I really must tell her but will she understand? Despite Harry's thoughts yesterday, today I don't believe so, it is a big expectation to have of anyone. But if I don't it will be even worse, he was correct on that. It would be easier to just walk away but I am developing strong feelings for her and do not wish to end things. I think she has feelings as well although I seriously doubt my ability to correctly interpret that, after what happened before. I will let it all ride for a while longer and see what happens.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Apologies for the delay in publishing, I've been away for several weeks to somewhere where there is limited/no access to cyberspace. My normal publishing schedule will now resume. Many thanks to those of you who are sticking with reading this and particularly to those taking the time to review, it's always greatly appreciated!**

7\. London, Thursday 19 December 2013

 _Bayswater, London, 13:25_

Brontee Sorenson pulled the collar of her overcoat up around her ears and tightened her scarf as she emerged back into the cold early afternoon from Queensway tube station. The day had been bright, cold and showery thus far but as it went on the showers were starting to get heavier and more frequent, threatening to turn into rain and she wondered if she should have brought her umbrella. Turning right onto Bayswater Road she didn't have far to go to find the café that D'wane had suggested for their lunchtime meeting point. Nondescript, with vinyl floor covering, formica tables with plastic tablecloths and slightly rickety chairs, although it had large windows looking out onto the street they were covered by slightly dusty lace curtains that had once been white and the glass itself was partially fogged in condensation. On the good side, the place was warm, busy enough but not too busy and there were some not unattractive smells wafting through from the kitchen.

Ordering a pot of tea and a toasted sandwich – it was lunchtime, albeit a bit later than normal, after all – she found a table by the side of the room and sat down to ponder the reason why they were meeting here, so far from their office in Grosvenor Square. In order to divert any unwanted attention D'wane Brandon had left before her by a good ten minutes, walking away the opposite direction to that which she would take and electing to catch the bus, which was why she was here first. The events of the last week had unsettled both of them and now whatever it was that D'wane had overheard had disturbed him enough to suggest that they start meeting off-site to discuss anything to do with Michaeli and Galloway.

It had started on the Tuesday of last week when D'wane, on the way back to his work area from a visit to the conveniences, heard raised voices echoing down the corridor from the Special Activities office. It sounded like someone was getting a ball-tearing from Michaeli so he stopped to listen for a moment: he couldn't discern much but something that sounded like,

"You were supposed to stay out of sight and he _parked you in?_ What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing?" made him think twice and then turn back down the hallway, towards the sound. He wasn't out of sight of the internal security system but that didn't worry him because he was in charge of it… The mumbled response to the questions was unintelligible but Michaeli's next words were quite clear.

"And on top of that you didn't recognise who he was _with?_ How could you _not_ recognise Harry fucking Pearce, it was his fucking _club_ they went to for dinner yet it took the other agent, _on her first overseas posting,_ to ID him to me! So first, you don't recognise the head of Five's counter-terrorism section and one of the more infamous spies in the international industry, second you obviously let either him or Gavrik or, more likely, both of them realise you were following them and then _third_ , you're too fucking slow to stop Gavrik's driver from parking you in so they both get a good look at you." The incredulity in his voice was plain to hear, as was the absolute fury so D'wane wasn't surprised at what came next. "Get out. You're off this task and you may yet be out of a job."

At that Brandon had turned smartly and removed himself from the area before he could be seen. Returning to his work station he sat down and considered what he had heard for a while: clearly they were still following the Russian minister, for reasons unknown, only now it looked like MI5 was also a target? Or was it inadvertent? He had later hauled Brontee into the server room and given her a summary of what he had heard and they both thought about that implication, coming to the conclusion that it was probably inadvertent.

Neither of them had forgotten the aftermath of Jim Coaver's death or the efforts they had gone to in conjunction with Tallulah Zanon after it was all over to prove to their own side that Sir Harry had had no case to answer; neither had they forgotten the quiet logistical support they had provided, in tandem with Minister Gavrik, to Sir Harry's agent to carry out his task in Moscow. They had become aware of the growing, genuine friendship between the two men as they attempted to heal from the perfidy of Elena Gavrik and RussiaFirst but neither of them could see any reason on Earth why their organisation should now be targeting either the Russian or MI5, for all that there were constant rumours about the CIA and Five creating a joint agency to share homeland intelligence which were only half-joking when the same rumours added that it was their chance to take over the Brits _via_ the back door. It _was_ true that a woman named Geraldine Maltby, Five's new Deputy Director General, had been seen around Grosvenor Square on an increasingly regular basis of late but that was nothing out of the ordinary, given her job.

Their puzzlement had led to a decision that was risky yet was the only way they could think of to get something more solid on the SAD agents. Returning to his work station he first removed himself from the CCTV images in the corridor, replacing it with a loop of the empty hallway, then set to work, remotely activating voice recorders in everything that he had access to. Later, after the two men had left, he used an excuse of a hardware upgrade to place more physical bugs in their offices. It had been a quiet day otherwise so he had spent most of it, and the evening hours while he was waiting to get into their offices, writing up algorithms to send automated notifications to himself and Brontee whenever certain terms and names came up. It was all he could do.

Brontee herself had uncovered the next puzzling fact towards the end of the previous week. It had taken her days of careful, part-time sleuthing to finally accurately identify Jean MacLean Watts' daughter and when she did she didn't quite believe it. Staring at the revelation she had finally taken her phone and gone for a walk in the park opposite the office, using Brandon's personal encryption app to mask a call to a desk deep inside the ziggurat-like building facing the Thames at Vauxhall Cross, she was relieved to hear a familiar, cut-crystal accent respond. Elizabeth "Beth" Bailey had only been working for MI6 for about a month (courtesy of a very strong recommendation from Harry himself) when the pair had met at the annual unofficial security services Christmas party last year and had hit it off immediately over a bottle or three of wine and a discussion on the hotness or otherwise of the men they had worked with, in their favourite TV shows and movies and on the sports field. Since then they had regularly, albeit under the radar, passed intel backwards and forwards as well as becoming fast friends, for all that Brontee rarely got out of the city and Beth was often absent on mysterious missions abroad. Their conversation that day had been brief.

"Was a woman named Erin Watts your senior officer in your previous job?"

Beth had blinked at that, wondering what her American friend was driving at.

"Why?"

"Not sure but she may be being watched. I'm trying to work out why."

The English woman had wrinkled her nose at the memory of the glamorous hurricane that had arrived in Section D to keep Harry's seat warm, immediately taken to Dimitri Levendis and against Beth Bailey and blown the latter's career in that organisation away with evidence that Beth knew had been deliberately distorted. They had essentially loathed each other on sight, Erin mildly despising the other woman's rebellious streak (while secretly envious of what she knew of her international free-lance career) while Beth had felt roughly the same about someone who had been fast-tracked because of her university results and (no doubt) her looks without actually gaining any huge amount of field experience. However, if the woman was in danger she was professional enough to rise above her personal prejudices.

"Then yes, she was. Very briefly. Still is in that position. Is she in trouble?"

"Again, I don't know. It may be nothing but it may not be, either. I just needed to check that she was who I thought she was. We'd better make this quick, just in case, so thanks. I'll let you know if anything comes of it that you need to be aware of."

Beth had looked at her phone in puzzlement as the call clicked off before internally shrugging and putting it aside. If it was anything major she trusted Brontee to let her know.

Once she had hung up Brontee had taken a deep breath and quietly let it out again in a silent sigh. Then it had been her turn to pull D'wane aside. He had been every bit as surprised as she had been to find out that the Russian minister's girlfriend was the mother of Harry Pearce's Section Chief, although unlike his friend he at least remembered Erin from the time of Director Coaver's death, once he heard her name. Not that it helped them with defining why or what might be being planned…

A tinkle from the cheap bell strung up over the door distracted her from her thoughts and she glanced up to see her work-mate walk in and immediately fill the place just by his sheer size. She always forgot just how solidly fit he was when they were at work; now, watching him walk towards her she thought, again, how it was just as well that he was a techie and not a field agent: he tended to attract far too much attention just by his physical presence. Sitting down just as her tea and sandwich arrived he doubled the order and thanked his friend as she pushed half of her sandwich towards him.

"Thanks, Bron." They both took a bite of the hot, cheesy goodness of salty ham and volcanic tomato inside a good, dense, perfectly toasted bread and sighed in unison before she asked,

"So what have you found out?"

Chewing reflectively the man wondered how to phrase it but then decided she would probably appreciate it straight.

"It's not good. The bugs picked up a conversation between our friends this morning. They've finally worked out who the daughter is, which sat them back on their fat asses for a little while but this morning Homer—" their nickname for Michaeli, because of his belly, lack of hair and his permanently blue jaw "—is talking in a way that's making me worry. The Russian is still the target but now he's talking about Plan B, in case whatever Plan A is goes belly-up." Another bite almost wiped out the rest of the sandwich. "He didn't give any details but what he did say was bad enough."

The waitress appeared again bearing the second cup of tea and second toasted sandwich; after she had left and the pair had split that sandwich and taken a long draught of their drinks D'wane, feeling the laser intensity of Brontee's cornflower blue eyes starting to sizzle against his skin, added,

"He's talking about using the family as leverage. Not the daughter – they're not quite that stupid – but the mother and/or, worst of all, the little girl. He said that if necessary they should take the girl to force the man to come to them."

Brontee nearly choked on her sandwich as her mouth went dry and her eyes widened.

"They wouldn't?"

The man shrugged, every bit as horrified as she was but having had longer to digest the words.

"They're talking about it so I wouldn't put it past them. Homer's buddy, to his brief credit, argued against it, but folded fairly quickly. The question is, what do we do about it?"

They stared at each other, at a loss; both used the opportunity of more lunch to think but eventually Brontee said weakly,

"Oh God, I don't know, I'm just an analyst. I've got no idea."

"And I'm just a techie and neither do I but we've got to do something."

They finished eating in silence. D'wane sat back and picked up his mug.

"Do we tell the Boss yet?"

The woman had managed to push down her panic at the thought of a child getting caught up with the thugs of the SAD so she could think more clearly. Shaking her head and loosening a few of her unruly white-blonde curls in the process she replied slowly,

"No. I don't think so. She will say we need a more water-tight case and she's right." Sighing, she finished her tea. "I guess all we can do is keep on keeping on." Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment she added quietly, "It's times like this I wish Raul hadn't got himself that transfer to Venezuela." Their tattooed, spiky haired field agent friend had been promoted back in June and was now a Senior at the Caracas Station. "He would have known what to do, would have helped."

"Probably. He had no more love for the SAD than we do but he's not here so…" His voice tailed off as she stood up.

"I know. It's up to us. I'm heading back. Finish the tea in the pot before it gets cold and I'll see you later."

 _The Grid, Millbank, 14:00_

At about the same time Calum Reed put his phone back in its receiver and stretched out behind his desk, silently debating whether to try D'wane's mobile phone. Now closer to forty than thirty, Calum was no longer quite the man he had been, his _joie de vivre_ having never entirely recovered from what he had witnessed in that dreadful Spring of two years beforehand. Despite their apparent differences he had respected Tariq Masood's talent and ability and they had just about become genuine friends by the time he had frantically attempted to save the man's life as he died of poisoning on a wet pavement in the rain outside Thames House. After that the deaths and disasters had come thicker and faster until the entire game reached its end on a chilly, grey afternoon with two women dead, two men almost catatonic from loss and grief and another man suffering from both a bullet wound and a complete mental breakdown but with a terrorist act averted which would have seen Britain cause a major international incident and, very possibly, sparked a war with Russia. None of that mattered to the three who had witnessed the final act and none of them were unscathed but they were carrying on anyway: it wasn't like the terrorist threat had grown any less so there was plenty of work to do.

A week ago Will Holloway, one of their junior officers who had apparently known Harry forever but seemed to have something of a fractious relationship with him, had come back from a night observing at some international business dinner where Ilya Gavrik had been the guest of honour. Will had reported in the morning meeting the following day that little of interest had occurred but later Calum had noticed him closeted with Harry in the latter's office, talking quietly about something. Then, a couple of days back during a quiet period on the main floor of the Grid, Harry himself had called Calum into the inner sanctum and asked him to quietly use his contact (D'wane) inside the CIA London desk to find out if a particular person worked there and, if so, for whom. They had almost no information but a very good description; he said he'd do what he could and then promptly had to put it on the back-burner due to pressure of other work so today had been the first time he'd had a chance to call. Tempted though he was to leave it he knew it would end up not getting done for another week so, taking his own phone out of his pocket, he scrolled to the number and tapped.

"Yo, Calum my man! How're you doing?"

They exchanged chit-chat for a little while before getting to the nub of the matter. D'wane, now back at his desk, listened and realised quickly that he knew who she was: one of the newer agents on her first overseas posting, as keen as mustard and willing to do whatever was asked without question. She wasn't Canadian, wasn't generally a red-head but a blonde, wasn't known by the name that Calum gave him so he put him right and then he mentioned in passing that he believed her mother was Russian and that she spoke the language fluently. _Harry would be interested in that_. _And it explained why she had been chosen in the first place…_

Harry had indeed been interested in that when he was told half an hour later. Four decades of experience told him that Will had been keeping something back during the meeting so he wasn't surprised when the young man had slipped into his office later in the day, quietly closing the door behind him; his revelation that he suspected one of the other temp staff to be CIA wasn't really a surprise either. Calum's confirmation that the woman wasn't Canadian but definitely worked for Grosvenor Square merely supported a conclusion he had been coming to anyway. However, the Russian language skills showed that these people were a little more serious about whatever it was they were up to than he had thought. It seemed that his gut feel that the watchers from the other night were probably the Cousins was right. The next question was whether Ilya knew. He had no idea exactly where the man was at the moment – the US, possibly, which was mildly ironic – and this wasn't information he wanted to put in writing so it could wait until next time they caught up.

 _The Taj Hotel, Buckingham Gate, 17:40_

Ilya had, in fact, come to the same conclusion, although at the moment he and his security staff had no evidence to prove it. However, the fact that this was only occurring in London, his second home these days, and not back in Moscow, was reasonable circumstantial evidence, particularly when considered in conjunction with the knowledge that the usual suspects for most attempts on his life – various hired members of the Russian mafia – knew that this city was off-limits for their shenanigans, or for much other crime, due to the risks inherent with getting caught by Her Majesty's police. Or perhaps it just meant that they thought they could get away with tailing him more easily here than on the streets of his home city, an alien environment to your average American. There had been no joy tracking the numberplates of the various vehicles that had been following him – as he suspected, they were false – but that was just another confirmation that it was probably a government entity behind his shadows rather than one of his business rivals. At this stage he wasn't overly worried, more intrigued, but if it kept up for much longer he was going to have to set his senior security staff to work to try to sort it out. Right now, he had better things to think about.

The previous two days had been a whirl-wind. The early morning flight from Moscow to New York yesterday to finalise the latest business venture was followed by an overnight flight to London. Despite the comfort of a private first class suite he had slept little (although, to be honest, not much less than he usually managed even when at home) so on arrival he had taken the opportunity to book straight into his usual accommodation and try to catch a couple of hours extra sleep before the car arrived to take him out to the laboratory opening at Camberley. That had all been done and dusted by early afternoon, giving him time to stop off on the way back to the hotel to pick something up before now having enough time for a more relaxed preparation for the evening.

The Royal Ballet were performing George Balanchine's "Jewels" at Covent Garden so he had booked their seats and dinner beforehand at Amphitheatre which meant setting off for Jean's place earlier than normal. The weather had gone down-hill during the afternoon and it was now quite cold with heavy showers that he hoped would let up for a few minutes once they got to Stamford Brook. Between the weather and peak hour traffic he ended up being glad of allowing the extra time because at least he was only a few minutes late instead of a lot.

 _Stamford Brook, 18:00_

Jean had been watching the weather as well and had erred on the side of practicality because of it, plumping for tailored trousers and a timeless silk shirt dressed up with her usual understated but classy bling, although no-one was going to see any of it until they got to their destination, hidden as it was under a richly claret-coloured overcoat. Checking her watch she clattered downstairs and glanced out the window next to the front door: no car yet so she moved through into the front half of the reception room and joined her grand-daughter on the sofa, where she was avidly watching "Horrible Histories" with Dimitri, both of them roaring with laughter at the antics on the screen. Silently acknowledging that she didn't mind the show herself she settled in for a few minutes, one ear on the weather outside and one eye on the clock.

Rosie wriggled in under her arm and asked,

"Nanna, are you going out?"

"Yes, poppet, just for a few hours."

"Where are you going"

She smiled down at the youngster.

"I don't know yet. It's a surprise!"

Rosie gazed up at her, eyes wide, blue and trying to look innocent, having another go at her failed attempt from a week or so back.

"Is Ilya coming to get you?"

"Oh, very possibly."

The girl sat up, bursting with suppressed excitement.

"Can I say hello when he gets here?"

Jean tousled her hair, knowing the reason behind the child's keenness, and said, as before,

"If you want to but you know you need to ask your mum first."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth Rosie bolted out towards the kitchen, just as Jean thought she heard the car.

Erin was putting the washing in the dryer in the utility room when she heard Rosie calling for her.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Can I say hello to Ilya when he gets here? Please, mummy, I want to tell him about my ballet concert. Please? _Please?"_

 _Oh, for heaven's sake…_ One of these days she was going to work out what the fascination was with the Russian for the other women in her family but not right now. She had had better weeks: a whole series of niggling little things going not quite right combined with a feeling that there was something going on that Harry wasn't telling her about – it seemed to be between him and Will Holloway but with their background it could have been anything, not even work related – that had been topped by a run-in with William Towers yesterday.

Harry had been off at an emergency meeting with his equivalents from Six, SCO19 and the MoD (that had turned out not to be such an emergency after all) so she had subbed for him at the normal Monday morning meeting at the Home Office. All had gone as per usual until after the end, when the others were leaving and Towers had asked her to stay back for a minute. Wondering what it was about she had complied quietly, only to find herself on the receiving end of an interrogation about her mother and Gavrik after their appearance at the RBCC dinner. She had been so outraged by the effrontery of it that she had soon found herself defending, quite vigorously, her mother's right to have a private life and consort with whomever she wished and extending the same to Gavrik. Unlike what the Home Secretary was obviously thinking, her mother's friendship with the man was hardly an issue of national security and she was quite emphatic about that, too, to the point that Towers, confronted by an infuriated termagant, realised he'd overstepped the mark and backed off. It had left her in a foul mood for the rest of the day but today, and tonight, had also resulted in an unexpected by-product: she was, for the moment, feeling much more charitably-inclined towards the Minister, not least because she had realised, after she'd stopped fizzing, that what she'd said in defence of the older couple was actually true. As a result, Rosie was delighted when, for once, her mother said quietly,

"Very well. Just be quick about it: and don't hold them up."

" _Thank you_ , Mummy!" Rosie gave her a big hug before skipping off to the front of the house, where the front door had opened and the pair were exchanging their normal, quite platonic, greetings. _Yet Towers had said that 'they were most definitely an item'…_ She didn't know what he'd thought he'd seen but to Erin's eye there was precious little evidence of it on show at the front door even if her mother's recent happiness suggested he may have been telling the truth.

The pair had barely had time to say hello and partially close the door against the weather when the pocket rocket that was Rosalie Pearl Watts, aged seven and a half, mis-timed her skidding halt and cannoned into her grandmother.

"Rosie! Watch what you're doing! You'll damage that arm again and you've only just got the cast off."

"Sorry, nanna! Hello Ilya."

They went through their little ritual before the child immediately launched into an excited summary of her performance the previous weekend, much to her grandmother's indulgent delight and Ilya's quiet amusement. Before she could commandeer the conversation completely Jean interrupted gently,

"You might have to leave it there, Rosie, we need to get going or we'll be late."

Deflated, the girl responded,

"Oh, okay."

"I am sure there is some film of your performance somewhere that your grandmother can send me, Rosie, so I can see for myself," the man added kindly, cheering her up a little, before holding out the A4 envelope he had been holding. "Now, you may remember that I was going to visit my ballerinas this month?" The child nodded. "I believe one of them may be one of your favourites so she signed this for you. She was the first one that we helped to finish her training and was the guest principal for the performance at the Mariinsky." Handing it over, he watched Rosie's face go from mystified to disbelief to overwhelmed as she withdrew the portrait of Olesya Somova, principal dancer with the Mariinsky Ballet and Rosie's current all-time-favourite performer thanks to a TV show earlier in the year featuring her in _Swan Lake_ , and realised that the dedication was personally addressed to her. So excited she could hardly breathe all she could do was gaze with eyes as wide as saucers at the man and murmur,

"Oh, _thank_ you!"

"There is one more thing." He tapped the pocket of his overcoat, where Jean had been wondering what it was that was affecting the usually impeccable line of his clothing. "Have you been a good girl for your mother?" Rosie nodded vigorously and not entirely untruthfully, wondering what was coming next but unable to imagine that it could be better than the photograph. "Then Olesya said that if you _had_ been good then you could have these." With that he withdrew a pair of battered _pointe_ shoes. "These were the shoes she wore at the performance that evening, as Aurora in _The Sleeping Beauty_."

The awe-struck expression as she took them and held them in her hands as though made of glass – or possibly diamonds – was worth every moment of his worry about whether giving any of it to the girl was appropriate, as was her sudden fierce hug. He wasn't so sure about the high-pitched shriek of,

" _Mum!"_ that she emitted as she hurtled back down the hallway to show Erin her treasures but the child's joy was palpable and that was all that mattered.

Jean winced at the shout but then smiled at the man and said,

"You really didn't have to do that, you know."

He gave a dismissive shrug.

"It was nothing. Olesya is a very kind, thoughtful young lady so was happy to sign the photo and offered the shoes of her own accord. She said she remembers what it was to be a seven year old balletomane."

"Ilya." Dimitri had hauled himself off the sofa at the noise and walked out to see what the commotion was about. Extending his hand with a grin he said, "I don't know what you did but my ears are still ringing!"

"Dimitri." They shook and the trio were well engaged in general conversation when Erin appeared with Rosie at her side a few minutes later.

"Minister."

"Miss Watts."

As always the formal greeting but tonight, feeling benevolent and because Rosie was over the moon with excitement, Erin unbent a little.

"That was very kind of you, thank you. You have quite made her day, or possibly her year."

"It was my pleasure." They continued talking for a little longer, Erin feeling slightly stilted while the three other adults were relieved and the child was just happy to have them all together for once. Ilya was definitely more like Harry than Erin had realised: not physically (tall, slim and dark _versus_ medium height, stocky and fair although both had un-nerving hazel-brown eyes, Harry's tending to an amber glow at times while the Russian's were an unusual, almost scintillating golden-brown) but at this close range it was the sheer power that clung to the pair of them that was the most noticeable similarity. Confidence, competence, that ever so slight edge of danger that was only identifiable if you knew what it was; whatever the case, there was a definite presence, or charisma, that was impossible to ignore. In a way she was glad when the older pair took their leave while they could, before the weather could start tipping it down again, because she could feel herself softening more towards the man and she wasn't sure she was ready for that yet. It was undeniable, though, that he was a nicer person than she had ever expected from the reading his professional history. _Then again, so is Harry…and never forget, they were both old master spies who had spent their entire adult lives getting people to trust them…_

Once they were in the car and on their way into town Jean settled in against Ilya's side and helped herself to his hand, asking how his whirlwind tour had gone. He in turn kissed her hand and gave her a summary while they rolled smoothly into town, going against the major flow of traffic at this hour. Before long they had reached their destination, the vehicle drawing to a stop in front of the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden: it seemed they were attending the Royal Ballet's performance of Balanchine's "Jewels" with dinner at _Amphitheatre_ first.

The rain was beginning to come down again by this point so they didn't linger for long outside, although Ilya's antenna for trouble was telling him that they were still being followed. Scanning the immediate area before they went inside he couldn't see anything out of place or overly familiar but he still felt the eyes on him, the sensation disappearing as they joined the steady stream of other patrons entering the building. Whomever it was they had taken the message delivered in the street with Harry a few nights before and were no longer being obvious but that also meant they were no longer easy to spot. That didn't really worry him because he would find them sooner or later but what was beginning to be of concern was the persistence they were showing in tracking him when he was with Jean. Not for himself but for her. He may have to do something about that if it continued.

The meal was excellent, as was the service so the time before the performance went quickly. However, while they were finishing off their drinks he took the opportunity to withdraw a slim, unmarked box from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and laid it on the table between them.

"I have a small memento for you, also, Jean, if you would be so kind as to accept it."

"Oh! Thank you!" She drew the box towards her, toying with it for a moment and enjoying the feeling of the fine leather casing. "Is this from the ballet as well?"

"No, from another place we have been." Ilya suddenly realised he was nervous, a feeling he hadn't been familiar with for many years. "I think you liked it."

 _That was a bit of an odd thing to say._

"Now you have me intrigued!" She toyed with the box for a moment longer, wracking her brain to work out what it might be until giving up and giving in to temptation, clicking it open. Her eyes flew wide and she gazed up at him in a mix of disbelief, delight and uncertainty. It was the purpurine and gold Faberge swan from the Sotheby's auction that she _thought_ she had admired so much without him noticing. _Obviously that was wrong…_ It was now mounted as a pendant on an exquisite gold chain and sat, glowing gently, in its velvet backing. "Oh my God, you bought it. But I'm not sure I can accept it—"

That was what he had feared, that her principles would make her hesitate.

"Please, Jean. I noticed how much you admired it and these things should go to people who truly appreciate and love them, not to sit in a display cabinet and never be touched."

She blinked at him, wondering for a moment if he was spinning her a line but all her instincts, professional and personal, were telling her the opposite, that he was being utterly genuine. Wavering, she protested weakly,

"But I know how much they wanted for it, dear heart…"

He smiled slightly as he waved away her concerns.

"Do not worry, I did not pay that for it." _No, you paid almost double to ensure that you got it. Not that she needed to know that, or not now._ He thought he would try to add a little humour. "And it is not something that would suit me to wear very often."

A laugh gurgled out of her at the prospect of him wearing such a delicate piece. As far as she knew, his taste for self-adornment extended to exquisite, usually bespoke, clothing and shoes, understated but expensive watches and elegantly classy cuff-links, although he could be hiding several kilograms of gold chain beneath his beautiful silk ties, for all she knew. He might have been jacket and tie off at the end of a long day when they got on Skype but the view of each other usually ended at about the collar level as they both used laptops so they could have been wearing anything…

"Well, that's true!" Her smile softened and made his heart clench for a moment. "Thank you, my love. It is beautiful and I do love it, for itself and for the man who is gifting it to me." That was almost enough to crack his façade completely but he managed to retain his composure by saying nothing but watching her take the pendant from its case and put it on, the swan coming to rest just below the hollow of her throat, gleaming gently where it caught the light. "So, how does it look?"

"Exquisite, like the wearer."

Both feeling a little breathless they gazed at each other, unsure of where to go next, when a gentle chiming indicating that patrons needed to make their way through to the theatre and their seats broke the mood. Half relieved, half regretful they obeyed the summons, Ilya tucking her hand into his arm as was their habit and escorting her to their seats. She was expecting them to be good, which they were; what she wasn't expecting was for them to be in their own private box, one of the innermost ones on the Grand Tier.

"You _are_ spoiling me tonight."

"I thought we could do with a little privacy and it means I will not be blocking the view of anyone behind me."

She suddenly grinned at him.

"Very thoughtful of you!"

"I have heard the complaints often enough," was his wry response before they spent the next few moments settling their seats into the best position to observe the show while also staying close to each other

The performance was lovely to Jean's eyes although Ilya, far more familiar with the art form than she, knew that it didn't really start to fire until mid-way through the second act. Act 1 was in the French Romantic style, to delicious music by Faure and glowing emerald costumes reflecting the name of the act; Act 2, to a somewhat jazzy Stravinsky score, was ruby red, athletic and energetic, the central _pas de deux_ leaving the audience breathless in its virtuosity; and the final Act, Diamonds, was an extraordinary homage to the heights of pre-revolution Imperial opulence performed to extracts from Tchaikovsky's Third Symphony, the principals glittering like their name-sake gems.

As the performance warmed up during the evening, so did the partnership in the box on the Grand Tier. During "Emeralds", the pair remained decorous, seated closely together yet not quite touching, contenting themselves with occasionally holding hands. After a brief return to the restaurant for refreshments, where Jean found to her delight that their table was being held for them for the course of the evening, as was the venue's habit, they returned for "Rubies", drawing their seats together so they could be physically closer and able to more easily murmur commentary to each other. Then, by the time "Diamonds" came around Jean decided to try giving things a push along. She was well aware that the average male often needed hints approximating the weight of your common or garden variety anvil dropped in front of them to get the message that someone was interested but she didn't think that was the issue here. That there _was_ an issue was obvious by now – he might be a gentleman through-and-through but even the most gentlemanly gentleman usually didn't have the restraint this one was showing – but she had no real idea of its identity. It wasn't her and it wasn't him, at the most personal of levels, of that she was certain, so until such a time as he decided to come clean she would drop anvils to see if she could get the response she wanted.

During the first quiet passage that came along she used the opportunity presented by their chairs now being literally pushed together to whisper a comment on the dancing to him and then, much as in the car the last time they had been together, relaxed against his side, her head on his shoulder. She was immediately gratified when his arm went around her shoulders and she thought she felt the lightest touch that might have been a kiss on the top of her head before he answered but she wasn't sure on that one. Instead, she reached up to intertwine her fingers with those resting on her upper arm and was pleased with the result thus far.

After the end of the performance they took their time recovering their coats before making their way, hand in hand, back outside where a blast of freezing air made Jean gasp, although Ilya barely registered it. Without thinking or, on this occasion, prior planning she leaned into him for some extra warmth.

"God, it's icy out here now!"

Smiling, Ilya took the opportunity to wrap his arm around her again and draw her into his side.

"You poor British, such delicate hot-house flowers! In Moscow this is a pleasant Summer evening…"

The equivalent of a slightly old-fashioned look was in her voice although there was laughter in the depths as well.

"I sincerely hope not."

Relenting, he conceded,

"Well, perhaps Spring rather than Summer."

"Liar!"

"Only a little!"

She laughed and he finally glanced down at her to see nothing but her sparkling sapphire eyes, dancing like a summer ocean in the sun, and he could resist no longer. Leaning down, he kissed her, gently, and was delighted when she responded instantly and ardently. The moment seemed to last only a few seconds and yet those seconds were timeless, enveloped as they were in pure emotion. It ended far sooner than either would have liked with the man sighing and kissing her cheek and ear.

"I was enjoying that," she protested mildly. "Do we have to stop?"

"So was I but I am afraid we must, for the moment. The car is here."

It was Jean's turn to sigh, which she did before reluctantly letting him go.

"You must tell that man to stop being so punctual."

"That will be a little difficult as it is one of his KPIs to retain his employment…"

She quirked an eyebrow at him as she settled into the seat.

"In that case I will forgive him. This time!"

As usual the trip back to Jean's home went too fast, particularly as this time they could openly, naturally make themselves comfortable together, with only the presence of the chauffeur/bodyguard constraining them. The conversation centred mostly around the performance as they drove in and out of heavy showers; fortunately the rain had eased by the time they arrived although the temperature was only just above freezing as they made a dash for the shelter of the small porch. Ilya could feel the eyes again as soon as he got out of the vehicle and he checked where he could as he moved around to open Jean's door but without, again, spotting anything out of place. He had a reasonable idea of where they were likely to be – where he would have been, had he been the one doing the watching – so he would have another attempt at finding whomever it was as he left. At the moment there were better things to do and if his gut feeling was right the uninvited presence would not be able to see whatever came next.

Jean, still blissfully unaware of anything but the man she was with and her own happiness, put her hands on his waist to draw him close.

"Now, where were we up to?"

Later, on his way back to the hotel, he had time to think. The return of the rain in a sudden, sleet-affected downpour had brought to an end their farewells on the porch, again earlier than either would have liked but the memory of her words as they parted made him smile inwardly as he gazed, unseeing, at the passing streets, familiar yet currently blurred and veiled in the driving rain.

 _"Wretched man," she had murmured in his ear, kissing his cheek and taking in his slightly perplexed reaction. "Doing this to me tonight when you're about to disappear back home in about six hours!" He had, of course, apologised immediately and promised to return as soon as possible so they could repeat the experience…_

The smile faded again as he considered the evening as a whole. He had not intended for it to end the way it had, not yet, not until he had made up his mind about what he was going to do. Harry's words had been playing on his mind ever since the night of their discussion but he had still not consciously made a decision, up to now very uncharacteristically hesitant to settle one way or the other. However, after tonight it seemed that he had made a decision after all. He would not disappear from her life without a word – would not do it to her, she deserved better than that, and had no desire to do it to himself, either – so there was really only the other option. Tell her and see what happened. As Harry had said, the worst that could happen would be that he would end up alone again but at least she would know the truth. Not telling was never an option: if he didn't say something, he was fairly certain that, sooner or later, Erin would. But still, not yet. Although he didn't hold much with Christmas he knew that Jean did and was looking forward to the next couple of weeks celebrating with the family so that was as good a reason as any to not say anything. After tonight, he knew that, whatever her decision, it would impinge on her enjoyment of that time so he might as well leave it.

Shaking himself out of his period of reflection as they turned into Buckingham Gate he turned to the other, more immediate, issue on his mind. The watchers. He had spotted the lone stalker when he had returned to the car, positioned where he had expected and apparently on a motorbike, as it was the reflection of headlights on chrome and a helmet faceplate that had caught his eye and confirmed his suspicions. A bike had just overtaken them as they were slowing down near the front entrance of The Taj Suites; he leaned forward to watch it go and then, when they drew to a halt, said,

"Vadim. Take the memory card from the dash-cam, give it to our technical people and try to identify that motorbike. Then see if it can be tracked on CCTV to find out if it has been following us and also to find where it is now going."

"Yes, Sir."

"Another thing. The watcher was still at the house and I believe that motor bike may have been them so if that one is not the correct machine then check any CCTV near the house for the times we arrived and left this evening and half an hour either side. If they can find the vehicle get them to attempt to track it as far backwards and forwards as they can, we need to find out who these people are. I am concerned about Jean, for her safety, with them around. Until we know who they are I would like to have someone observing her, _discretely_ , particularly when I am not here, to see if they watch then. Please arrange it."

He wasn't sure whether to point it out or not but, to be fair on his boss, Vadim knew that he would take the comment in the spirit in which it was offered.

"Sir, her daughter is Section Chief for MI5's counter-terrorism section, anyone we put on her wouldn't last very long before they were spotted."

To his relief his boss merely smiled slightly and responded calmly, albeit a little chidingly,

"Come now, Vadim, most of your local people are from the same background so you know how they work and should be able to avoid that happening. And it is not Jean's daughter they would be watching. I have faith in you."

Vadim breathed a careful sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Sir. I will organise it."

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _Well! That was worth waiting for. I finally got my wish – or part of it, anyway – and it entirely lived up to my expectations. Or hopes, I'm not sure which, but either way the man definitely knows how to kiss. He's still holding himself back for the reason or reasons unknown but even so… Part of me wishes he hadn't, or not tonight, though (despite that small voice in my mind yelling "about time!"), as he's leaving early in the morning and now we both know what we will be missing the absence will be unbearable. Gerald was lean and strong and so it would seem is Ilya, which gives more to look forward to. I did tell him exactly what I thought of him doing this to me tonight when he's heading off before dawn and he quite rightly apologised and promptly promised to return quickly so we could do it again. Cheeky blighter!_

 _I'm not going to sleep well tonight._

Erin's Diary:

 _Shit!_ I suspect things have stepped up a little. I didn't see anything but she was radiant when she came back and her lipstick was ever so slightly awry. And she was wearing a lovely little pendant that the Minister had apparently given her and which turns out to be Faberge and probably worth a small fortune (although he apparently says not, but then what's 'not expensive' to a Russian oligarch?), for Christ's sake. God, I suddenly feel like I'm her mother. Or maybe now I know what she was going through when I was involved with Rosie's father. Another unsuitable man but he was nothing compared to a murderous ex KGB colonel. I'm going to have to tell her, and soon. None of which was helped by Towers bailing me up yesterday and asking what was going on because he had seen them at the dinner and, to quote him, 'they were quite clearly an item' and then I found myself defending them, or at least my mother's right to have a life, no matter what I do for a living. Double shit.

Ilya's Journal:

I was foolish tonight and gave in to temptation. She looked so lovely that I kissed her while we were waiting for the car after the show and then again at her door. Not as deeply as I would have liked, or her, because she responded instantly both times and drew me close the second time, but it was wonderful anyway. She is satisfyingly warm and soft although forthright in telling me her opinion of my timing for taking such a step tonight. As if I had planned to… We would both like much more, I don't doubt that now, but I must find the courage to tell her. Soon.


	8. Chapter 8

8\. Ghana, Monday 20/London, Tuesday 21 January 2014

 _Accra, Ghana, Monday 20 January 2014 16:30_

Ilya's head was aching by the time the final meeting concluded. Not just from the stuffy atmosphere in the room but from the necessity of dealing with people whom he despised, in this case government officials on the take from private investors. He had arrived here a week ago in his official role as head of a Russian delegation who were negotiating a trade deal between the two countries, exchanging technology and infrastructure investment for access to valuable commodities including hydrocarbons, gold, diamonds and bauxite. That had been successfully wrapped up by the end of the first five days and then, once the rest of the delegation had returned to Moscow, he had stayed on to continue with more dialogue on behalf of a deal he was close to bringing home for Kaspgaz. These were essentially related to finding out how much _baksheesh_ his company would have to pay and in what form – cash, arms, access to his latest military drone venture (which was off the list as far as he was concerned), the list went on and on, only slightly smaller than that for the government trade deal – to finally get their new oil and gas operation off the ground. By about half way through the first morning he had finally admitted to himself that he was over it all. It was time to palm all of this off onto his COO and CFO. He would give them a substantial pay rise because it would be worth it and probably cheaper than he himself wasting his time…

In the car on the way from the industrial area back to his hotel he contemplated the dichotomy presented by the hot, dusty streets passing by, thronged by the colourfully dressed populace: alternately modern, multi-lane highways backed by multi storey edifices with lots of shiny new vehicles or narrower, rougher, barely-paved tracks, choked with beaten-up traffic, backed by their crumbling, shambolic, one or two storey buildings and half-buried in piles of rubbish that moved as though by their own volition in the humid wind. It was typical of Africa, though, as had been the business dealings, the entire continent was a complex mish-mash of colour and dirt, honour and corruption, incredible wealth and incredible poverty… not dissimilar to Russia in a lot of ways. He had thrived on it, once, but not so much any more. With more wealth than he could ever use or would once ever have imagined owning there was no longer any incentive on that front and his enjoyment of the cut-and-thrust of negotiations had dried up over the past couple of years, after the destruction of life as he had thought he knew it. Now all it was doing was helping to fill in time and stop him from brooding on the unchangeable past while he was casting around for a new direction to take.

As well as having a foul headache he was very tired and things weren't about to improve for the next few weeks. Initially he had intended to be back in London by now – on the subject of a new direction, having made his decision regarding Jean he was now keen to just get on with it because the stress of trying to balance the outcome he wanted against the outcome that was more likely in his thoughts was proving greater than he had ever expected – but first this round of meetings in Africa had been postponed and then dragged on, seemingly endlessly. Finally the end had apparently heaved into view only to be sidetracked yet again by the phone call this morning.

The discussion with the President had been short and to the point. He wanted his inner cabinet back in Moscow by Wednesday morning for an urgent strategy meeting with the National Security Committee and that included his Minister for International Development. Although he generally went his own way, and was allowed to do so, this time Ilya was given no choice. He had been watching political developments over the past few months with increasing disquiet, both inside Russia and in Ukraine, and the latest move last month by the Kremlin to restructure the state-owned press and media and put them under the control of Dimitri Kiselyov, one of Putin's lackeys whose dislike of the West and general homophobia was well known, on top of the on-going heavy-handed response to anti-corruption blogger and opposition activist Alexei Navalny, the shutting down of the few remaining independent media organisations and increasing government interference in what sort of entertainment could be presented on air or on stage, suggested that his former mentee's tendency towards megalomania was developing from a canter to a full-blown gallop. Add the equivalent of an imperial summons to the mix and it didn't bode well for the immediate future.

The high-rises of the city centre were visible now so Ilya hauled himself back to the present from pointless speculation on what the future was going to hold and reverted instead to tonight and tomorrow. He hadn't been going to mention his stopover to Jean but now he suddenly decided otherwise. He would see if she could join him, even if only for half an hour, and if the response was positive would organise one of the private lounges for them to catch up in. Suddenly feeling a little better he pulled out his phone and tapped out the message.

 _Bayswater, London, Tuesday 21 January 2014 12:10_

D'wane and Brontee were back in the same café in Bayswater where they had first met up for these off-site secure meetings a month ago, having been using randomly selected locations elsewhere in between times. This was the first time they had caught up since just before Christmas: Brontee had taken her still-new husband, a local lad, back to Minnesota for the festive season to meet the rest of her extended family and to experience the joys of the year in well and truly sub-zero temperatures, returning a week into 2014, while D'wane had waited until the new year to return home to Chicago and had only just got back. Their targets, Galloway and Michaeli, had both been away since the week before Christmas for the better part of a month but D'wane had nonetheless left his recording devices and programs in place and had spend the past few days filtering the results.

There wasn't much to report. Most of their communications related to other operations in which D'wane had no interest, with only one brief meeting on the Russian Minister in which they had discussed his movements for the past month which, like everyone else, wasn't much. He'd spent the majority of the time in Moscow but had flown out to Africa at the end of last week and that was all.

Brontee stirred her tea and held off replying until the waitress had placed their lunch in front of them.

"Neither of them have been out much since I've been back but what came of the GPS downloads you were going to analyse?"

Early in December D'wane had noticed a pattern in the vehicles the pair booked out that roughly coincided with the Minister's visits so had pulled the tracks from the GPS feed that went straight into his mainframe from each one of them, going back to a couple of months before he and Brontee had started to become suspicious. He had tinkered with the information as a bit of a hobby for the next few weeks before he had finally had time to sit down and plot it all properly. Now, chewing on the mouthful of rather delicious battered fish and a couple of equally tasty chips that he had shovelled in as soon as the plate had hit the table, Brandon considered how to summarise what he had found.

"Well, it's interesting. Our pair seemed to have stopped going out themselves fairly quickly so I broadened the search to all vehicles used by SAD over the periods in question. Given that we know the likely targets it helped filter the noise and confirmed that they are quite interested in the Russian politician. However, the records thin out really quickly so I suspect they've been hiring vehicles instead of using ours which makes it impossible to find out what they've been up to more recently."

Brontee thought about that while she swallowed some of her soup, thick, steaming hot and tasty – the food in this place seriously belied its image, she really must come back more often – before saying,

"I'll find out which junior agents the pair normally use and see if any of them are associated with the car hire accounts, then we might be able to get some records from them as well."

"Good idea." After another mouthful of fish the man added, "There's something else. There's a couple of other destinations that they seem to be going to – this is our pair, not the juniors – on a semi-regular basis but I don't know what they are. One's in a derelict industrial area out past Poplar, the other is near one of their military facilities out past Bury St Edmunds. It might pay to find out what they are as well."

She nodded.

"I'll see what I can get if you give me the details." She chewed on a small piece of the sourdough toast that had turned up with her soup. "We still don't have quite enough to take to Tallulah, do we?"

"No, don't think so." He took some tea and then glanced up at her, empathising with her sense of frustration. "I'm starting to wonder if we should contact the Brits. I can at least ask Calum. After all he did ask that odd question about Amy Wilson a little while back. Maybe that was what it was about – maybe they're onto it as well."

"It's likely, especially considering who the Russian is seeing. But let me see what I can turn up with the other stuff first – in fact maybe our Amy might be another starting point."

 _Heathrow Terminal 4, London , 12:50_

Jean checked her instructions and then her watch: it looked like she was just about there and in fact, when she raised her eyes again she saw the black and yellow sign pointing the way to the lounges. A few steps later she rounded the corner between the duty free shop and the café and spotted the double glass doors that allowed entrance to the one she wanted. As she drew near she noticed a familiar, tall figure approaching the door from the other side and gave him a smile and wave, suddenly nervous. Not that there was any reason to be, judging by his return smile which was both welcoming and relieved.

"Hello, Jeannie." The Russian took her hands and kissed both, adding a heart-felt, "I am _so_ glad to see you."

"Hello, dear heart. And ditto!" They exchanged a chaste kiss before the Russian put an arm around her shoulders and led her through the main lounge area – much like any other, really – then upstairs to the second lounge and a discrete doorway which led into a luxurious private room with a sweeping view of airside. Once the door was closed he drew her into a proper embrace, sighed a quiet,

" _Solnishko moyo,"_ and squeezed her tight before kissing her properly.

"Mmm, that's better," she murmured in his ear when they finally parted.

"It most certainly is. In fact, I think we should do it again."

Next time they separated they were both smiling slightly foolishly and spent a few moments gazing at each other, enjoying the feeling. Eventually Jean laid a hand gently against his cheek and said,

"You look exhausted, Ilya. You really need to slow down and have a rest occasionally."

Kissing her forehead he replied,

"Much though I would like to there is precious little chance of that happening any time in the near future." Releasing her he added, "Please, make yourself comfortable while I get us some drinks."

Doing as she was bid she chose a deeply comfortable leather two-seater which allowed its occupants an expansive view through the floor to ceiling windows that formed most of the room's outer wall of aircraft arriving and departing on the main runway. In the few minutes until her companion returned several flights came and went on runway 09R-27L and she was settling into their movement pattern when the man rejoined her, handing over a glass of champagne as he sat next to her. To her surprise he had lost both suit jacket and tie while her back was turned and looked much the better for it, more relaxed, if still tired.

"Here's to unexpected meetings, dearest," she raised her glass to him and they clinked before allowing some of the deliciously mellow bubbles to slide down their throats. "What are you doing here today anyway, Ilya? I thought you were passing through later in the week."

"That was the plan," he acknowledged, putting an arm around her shoulders and drawing her into his side, "but I have been summoned back to Moscow." Something in his tone made her sit up a little and gaze at him thoughtfully, although without saying anything, but then she didn't need to: he understood her well enough now to know when she was intensely curious but too polite to ask. Smiling wryly he added, "The President called and asked me to return for a meeting of the inner cabinet and the security committee tomorrow. I was not given the option to decline."

Jean's thoughts immediately turned to the very recent events in Ukraine and the brewing political crisis between that country and Russia over the December deal that had handed the Kerch peninsula in Crimea to Moscow.

"Is this about Ukraine?"

A sudden gust of wind outside sent its accompanying raindrops rattling across the plate-glass windows, the sound muted but still enough to draw their attention outside for a moment to see another squall coming across the tarmac towards them.

"I do not know, my dear. So far I have had no involvement in that and I wish it to remain that way but…" As the squall splattered itself against the windows, causing the view to run in distorted rivulets for an instant or two, Jean kissed him softly on the cheek and relaxed back against his side. Out of habit he checked his surroundings before continuing so quietly she could only just hear him. "I am very concerned, Jean, about what is happening in my country. I have known the President for a very long time and I fear he is out of control. Some of the things I am hearing, if they are true, will lead to nowhere that is good for any of us, inside Russia or out. It has been many years since I had any hopes for Russia but still I do not wish to see her go down the path on which Vladimir Vladimirovitch seems intent to take her."

The deep seriousness of his words was impossible to miss, as was the sense of foreboding behind them and she was suddenly reminded of exactly what level this man that she was slowly falling in love with moved at in the international political arena. Small wonder he looked exhausted a lot of time: as if running a multi-pronged, multinational business empire wasn't enough he was also involved in God knows what politically. She tended to forget about all of that when they were together – then, he was just a man as she was just a woman. Now, she had no idea of what to say, fearing that anything would be trite. As though he sensed her thoughts he kissed her temple and said,

"This is too serious a subject for today, please forgive me. You must tell me what you have been doing."

Feeling slightly inadequate she acceded to his request and over the next short while he drew her back out of herself again, particularly when they got on to the subject of Rosie's ballet concert. She had fretted over the child getting her cast off a week early but he seemed to think it was worth it and, from what he had seen in the recording of the concert that she had sent him, was of the opinion that the child had genuine talent. That had sparked another conversation, which led onwards and outwards to other subjects until finally his flight crept towards the top of the departure screen and it was time for them to part again. Extremely reluctantly and only after an extended embrace Jean left for the Tube station while Ilya went the other direction to board his Aeroflot flight for Moscow. She was happy but wondering what was behind the deep sadness that she had observed in his eyes as they bid each other _adieu_ ; he was hoping that she hadn't picked up on it as it was symptomatic of his current dilemma. For all his fabled glacial self-control he had never, at his core, been any more detached from his emotions than anyone else, which was why Elena's perfidy had cut him to the quick and why, now, he couldn't bear to drag things out with Jean much longer. Next time, or the time after, he would manufacture an opportunity to tell her, given the slightest chance.

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _I was still on the Tube when his flight arrived from Africa. It took far too long (15 minutes!) before he sent a text with directions on where to go to find where he was but it was only a few minutes after that that we were together again. It was the first time I've seen him, in the flesh (skype doesn't count), in casual mode and it suits him._

 _We barely had an hour, which we spent sipping champagne and cuddling on the couch, talking. I still think he's worried about something but hasn't said what it is but it's something apart from Russian internal politics, which he's very open about causing him serious concerns. Presumably I'll find out eventually. As long as it's not bad new about us. It shouldn't be because we're still in touch daily, usually several times, there's been no decline in that and, after a worryingly restrained start to today everything changed – in the right direction – once we got behind closed doors. Hopefully it will either sort itself out or I'll ask him outright in a couple of weeks when he's back in town for longer._

 _There was an intense sadness hiding behind his words and actions over our final ten or fifteen minutes although he was fine again when he rang half an hour ago, saying he was safely arrived at home. We'll skype tomorrow so I may at least find out why he's been hauled back – if he can discuss it, of course._

Erin's Diary:

I gather The Minister was around this afternoon. Passing through the airport so she went out to see him and was late picking Rosie up from school as a result although she did say it wasn't her fault that there was a major hold-up on the Piccadilly Line. Still not impressed. At all. It's got to stop. But when I said as much the look I got back froze me to the spot before she disappeared upstairs for the rest of the night, including some time on the phone to him. I may have overstepped the mark. Dee said as much but it's getting ridiculous. She even lets Rosie talk to him occasionally when they're on Skype. She says he's helping her with her homework half the time, which I have to admit he is, but I still don't want that man anywhere near either my mother or my daughter. Trying to stop Rosie only results in tantrums and sulks for days so I'm stuck in a bind. I'm really going to have to tell her what he did to Elena.

Ilya's Journal:

We had a too-brief catch up at the airport this afternoon, but too brief is better than nothing. My feelings continue to strengthen – I could hardly wait to hold her today and did not want to leave when the flight was called – so I will address the issue next time I am in town. She knows there is something holding me back so it is unfair of me to make us continue in this way. I just have to hope that she can understand and forgive me for what happened with Elena.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I would like to acknowledge and thank BatteredPen for allowing me to reference the appropriate part of her excellent story "Next" over the following couple of chapters. And also for her pointers for research topics for some of the background arc to this story.**

9\. London, Tuesday 28 January 2014

 _Offices of Caledfwich Services, Belgravia, 10:30_

Malcolm watched Ilya Gavrik slowly and methodically examining the watch that the Welshman had just returned to him, waiting to see if the Russian could pick the only indication of the change he had made to the small device. As he suspected it didn't take long.

"I believe it may be a little thicker than it was and has a new glass but if I did not know the watch so well it would be impossible to tell." It was one of Ilya's favourite pieces, being the first Patek Phillipe that he had purchased over twenty five years before, and he had thought twice about handing it over but the other man had assured him that no harm would come to it and the promise of what the alteration could deliver had been impossible to ignore so here they were, in a quiet, spacious, well-lit office in a discrete Georgian building filled with technological wonders examining Malcolm's latest piece of subterfuge. That man gave his small smile of contentment; he was enjoying working with Gavrik who, unlike Harry, was fully up to date with technology in its theory and practice, and was quietly pleased that it had taken even him, with that knowledge and being the owner of the watch, a couple of minutes to spot the changes.

"Yes, I am very pleased with how thin we have managed to get the technology. It has been working faultlessly for the past week or two and I will familiarise you with all the options before you leave today but, if you would be so kind, could you please wear it for the next few weeks so we can test it in a real life setting? We will continuously monitor it, of course, with the signal coming back directly to my computer."

"Of course. It will be a pleasure." As he spoke Ilya was removing his current watch and replacing it with the Patek: it essentially didn't feel any different to how it had always been, sitting comfortably on his wrist but held much promise so he was every bit as interested in how it would perform as was Malcolm, particularly if it lived up to the possibility that he might be able to do without his bodyguards, at least occasionally.

He had been here for the past hour or so discussing their various joint ventures and Ilya had assumed that the watch would be the end of the session but instead Malcolm leaned forward, steepled his fingers and fixed his light, greenish-grey eyes on the man sitting opposite him.

"There is one more thing that I need to mention before we go through the watch controls and I can let you go on your way." His tone suggested it was something serious so the Russian said nothing, merely sat back and gazed steadily back at the speaker. Although not malevolent, it was a gaze that had un-nerved many a man in the past but not Malcolm; having become inured to the many moods of Harry Pearce over the years he knew that Ilya's current expression was merely one of objective assessment for all that it was on the intense side. He wondered briefly if it would stay that way for much longer.

"I have completed the reverse check of your network and comms system. My apologies for it taking so long but it is always more of a challenge to analyse traffic going outwards rather than that coming in. I will keep it brief – a copy of the full report will be with you by the time you return to your office – but generally everything is adequate to good, although there are areas that can be tightened up. However, it appears that you have one active breach although I believe they are an amateur, not a professional: they do nothing to disguise what they are doing." The dark, intelligent eyes hardened and brightened, the soft light apparently causing their colours to shift and change but all the man said was,

"Go on."

"It is one person who works in your finance department. I will forward all of the evidence to you but he is in intermittent contact with someone within the American Embassy and it is inevitably around your movements when you are in town."

"You are saying the CIA have a spy within my organisation." It was a statement, not a question, and the deep voice was matter of fact.

"Yes. As I said, a non-professional asset rather than a professional but a spy nonetheless."

Ilya sighed and relaxed back into the remarkably comfortable seat, momentarily focussing his attention on the beautifully constructed garden visible outside the window behind Malcolm. A bright shower had just passed through and all the plants were now glittering with diamond drops as though some impossible sylph had flown overhead and sprinkled her stardust everywhere.

"Another one."

The Welshman's brows drew together briefly.

"'Another'?"

"Yes. There has been at least one before: belonging to Five and reporting back to Harry at the end, I believe."

That was news to Malcolm but then he had been out of the Service for almost five years by now so he wouldn't know if whatever Gavrik was referring to had happened in the intervening period. He was curious, though.

"'The end'?"

The Russian's attention returned to him and he gave a remarkably sanguine wave of the hand.

"She was pulled out just as she was revealed in the national press and literally minutes before I was going to have her escorted from the premises. You may remember the events from a few years ago when a briefcase was stolen and a number of asset identities revealed with regrettable consequences…" All part of Elena's treachery resulting in among the earliest of her deadly roll-call which would have ended in the shooting down of an un-armed civilian jet over London had she had her way. A shaft of bitterness had lanced through him at his last few words but he had managed to keep it out of his voice and he let it go now, as ever determined to not allow the woman any control over any part of his current existence. He had a far better focus for his attentions now.

Malcolm did recall the event now Ilya had mentioned it but had also seen the reaction that went with it, despite the other man's swift and ruthless suppression of it. Courtesy of forty-eight hours that he would rather forget, the dreadful two days where he had drank, wept and talked with Harry immediately after Ruth's death, as well as many occasions in the weeks that had followed, he knew more of what had happened in 2011 than Ilya probably realised and had understood the source of the Russian's reaction. Harry had been devastated beyond words with the loss of Ruth but the entire foundation of Ilya's and Sasha's life as they knew it had been pulverised almost to the extent of ripping apart its very atoms and Malcolm had always quietly believed that they were the woman's greatest victims. Now, though, he thought it best to slide quietly and efficiently past the subject and back on to safer grounds.

"Ah yes, I believe I do. Well, as I said I will pass on all the relevant evidence to you so you can decide what course of action to take regarding this person. At least you will be aware of the extent of his activities. Now, for this watch…"

 _Grosvenor Square, Office of the Director of the London CIA Station, 14:10_

A massive teak desk dominated the room, almost dwarfing the woman seated in its accompanying plush leather chair. Not that much of her could be seen anyway, courtesy of the three computer monitors set up in front of her making her feel like she was at the helm of the Starship Enterprise. Tallulah Zanon was nearly sixty, still thin as a rail with smoothly-coiffed white hair and coal-dark eyes in a finely-boned face and was often mistaken for being someone's grandmother, something that suited her infinitely well when she was out in the field. Not that she had been for a couple of years; after the debacle that had led to Director Coaver's death a few years beforehand the previous head of the London Station had been returned to Langley under a very dark cloud, leaving Tallulah as Acting Director. The replacement had arrived eventually but had only lasted eight months before wangling a return to the US so now here she was again only this time she hadn't been able to wriggle out of taking on the position permanently, meaning she was no longer 'Acting' in the role.

As she had suspected there had been a subsequent increase in the amount of paperwork that she had to wade through every day along with an even larger decrease in the opportunities to do real work. It was frustrating but it wouldn't be for much longer; come the end of this year and her sixtieth birthday she was taking early retirement so she could do some long-delayed holidaying with her husband. Over the weekend they had been talking about it, tossing up destinations but with no serious intent. At this stage it was all still a pipe-dream that belonged to the future but that didn't stop her considering it at various times during the day, such as now. A gentle tap on the door brought her back to the present from her momentary dreams of pristine Tahitian beaches and she glanced up to see Brontee Sorenson and D'wane Brandon standing on the other side of her plate-glass office doors. She signalled for them to come in and then sat back to wait.

It didn't take much time. Uncharacteristically, D'wane stayed mostly silent, allowing Brontee to concisely present their case. It was damning but in the normal way of things Tallulah, despite loathing the Special Activities Division more than most because she had worked with them on several occasions, would not have considered the fact that Michaeli and Galloway were clearly monitoring the Russian politician with intent to be something to expend reasonably scant resources on but, like her young colleagues, she felt there was something striking an uncomfortable note here, something off. It had been the mention of the child that had really caught her attention and set her antennae off because she knew something that they didn't: Michaeli had used children in questionable circumstances before. A long time ago, admittedly, but it had done his career no good at all, even in an occupation that existed in a constant state of amoral flux. The fact that he was apparently considering doing it again, this time involving a high-powered member of the Kremlin's inner circle and the family of a senior member of MI5's counter-terrorism section suggested no good was likely to come of it. She had useful contacts back in Langley so, despite the SAD's notorious secrecy, she was going to start asking questions to see if anyone knew exactly what the pair were up to and why. In the meantime she gave her young agents permission to keep monitoring, as long as they continued to do so on tip-toe: the last thing she wanted was for that pair of knuckle-dragging goons to realise they were under surveillance themselves.

 _Stamford Brook, 19:25_

Yet another shower – about the thousandth for the day, Jean thought – clattered on the glass skylights of her airy kitchen/dining extension as she walked in to get her phone and clutch, leaving Ilya and Rosie deep in conversation at the front of the reception room. Dimitri was out meeting someone and would be home later so Erin was in the kitchen on her own, preparing a light meal for her daughter and herself.

"You're off?"

"Yes, almost, once I can extract Ilya from Rosie! We'll probably be late getting back so don't let her even think about staying up."

"That I definitely won't be allowing." The younger woman glanced up towards where she knew her daughter was, her piping tones clearly audible over the Russian's deep rumble, with a slight frown between her finely arched brows but didn't say any more. Jean didn't need to hear her, though, she had a fair idea of what the expression was for. Sighing quietly she asked,

"What's the matter? Ilya wouldn't be inside if it wasn't for the weather and Rosie getting to the door first when he arrived, you know that."

"Oh, it's not that, Mum. Even I wouldn't be uncivil enough to make the Minister wait out there in this weather. If you must know, I would really like to understand why Rosie has taken such a shine to him, from day one. I don't get it." Jean was surprised at that; to her, it was blindingly obvious and she said as much, to receive a slightly waspish response. "Well it might be crystal clear to you, mum, but I'm not a child psychologist so I've got no idea."

"Very well." Jean put her clutch down again. "It's fairly simple. Rosie didn't have a male role model of any sort in her life for her first few years, which is really not ideal. Lately Dimitri has come along and is doing a good job of filling in the father gap and now Ilya is giving her the grand-father figure she's always wanted. That's all. And it's certainly been good for her."

Erin was torn by what she heard. She knew her mother was probably right but, despite slightly unbending towards the Russian recently, she still had problems overcoming his dispassionate actions in the old Cold War bunker. Granted, Elena had deserved it but it was the icy efficiency with which he had carried out the act, along with the almost unbelievable detachment that he had shown immediately afterwards when working with an equally stoic Harry to cover up what had happened, that had been preying on her mind ever since he had decided to take up with Jean. Or she had decided to take up with him, whichever way it had occurred. It wasn't natural, the way either man had acted…

Remembering those surreal events with the two men working together to stage Elena's 'suicide' she also remembered something which may give the lie to Ilya's impression of composed coolness at the time: looking more ghastly than she had ever seen anyone after they had finished he had been totally unable to disguise the anguish and grief he was feeling and yet had still somehow found it in himself to be genuinely concerned for Harry. Funny how she'd forgotten that until now… Grudgingly, she responded,

"I suppose you're right. But what's in it for him, allowing a seven year old to talk him to death every chance she gets?"

"Exactly the same thing. I think he would love to have grand-children of his own but with his son still being so unwell I don't think that's likely to happen any time soon. So Rosie is filling that role for him." _He still hadn't told her to truth about that, either,_ Erin thought, suddenly tired. _This deception was going to have to end soon, even he had to see that._ Jean picked up the clutch again and leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on her cheek. "Don't worry about it, love. Accept it for what it is and let them enjoy the little time they have together: there's no harm in it and it makes both of them happy. Now, we really have to go so I will see you in the morning, unless you're still up when I get back but I'd suggest you go to bed earlier than that, you're looking exhausted."

"I will." Impulsively she returned the kiss. "Have a good night, Mum."

"I intend to!"

In the event it was nearly one by the time Ilya returned her to her door. That had been the first surprise: expecting the normal chauffeur-driven job, for once it wasn't. Although it was one of the usual vehicles this time Ilya was driving. He had passed it off, truthfully, as being because he had wanted to actually be alone with her more often, after their airport meeting, and if that meant giving the chauffeur the night off then so be it but it was also the first full test of the technology Malcolm had built into the Patek although that reason had been instantly forgotten about as soon as he had arrived at her house. Jean had accepted the explanation with a murmured,

"Excellent idea," and happily settled into the front passenger seat, turning towards him for a welcome kiss before they departed for the restaurant. This time it was at the exclusive venue St John in Smithfield. Its plain exterior continued inside, with basic black and white décor softened slightly by dark wood furniture, but the food was magnificent and, as always, the company was even better. The evening went fast, to the extent that they found themselves among the last to leave before the restaurant closed but, not in any hurry to return home, they stopped in Soho instead, to attend a blues club that Jean had heard about from some of her university colleagues. Being something of a blues aficionado, she had been looking for an excuse to go there for some time; having Ilya with her just made the achievement of finally getting there all the better. Half an hour after arriving, though, their quiet evening turned into more of a party when, completely unexpectedly, Harry and Hope walked in the door.

Hope had been in the US for the past week attending a Five Eyes workshop and had only got back earlier in the evening. Neither of them feeling inclined to cook, she and Harry had also gone out for a quick dinner at a favourite restaurant in Chinatown and decided on a whim to drop into the club on the way home. Unlike the other couple they had been coming here for most of the past year so knew it well. Making for their usual corner table it was Harry who spotted Ilya at about the same time as Ilya saw him; genuine smiles flashed between the pair of them and the Russian gestured for them to join him and Jean. This was the first opportunity Jean had had to really talk to her daughter's boss and his wife, not counting their short conversation at the wedding which had been more polite chit-chat than anything else. Although she would rather have remained alone with Ilya she found that she enjoyed the company of the other pair as well and they made a convivial table for the next hour to the background of some excellent music.

By half past midnight they were all ready to go home. As the gentlemen finished their drinks the ladies made their way to the powder room, chatting amiably. Jean had found Harry less fearsome than she had expected from some of Erin's remarks and Hope was intriguing, somehow emanating an almost visible tranquillity that relaxed all around her while maintaining the dry, black sense of humour that was either a pre-requisite of the job or the direct result of years of doing it. As they washed their hands afterwards Hope murmured lightly, a wry smile on her face,

"They're an interesting pair, these men of ours, aren't they? Even without knowing their history you'd not really expect them to be friends and yet they are, almost best mates these days."

"Oh, Ilya and I are just friends, really," Jean demurred, drying her hands and keeping her eyes down for a moment so the other woman wouldn't see the desire for things to be different on her face. "We haven't really talked about our individual history very much but I suspect they have much more in common than not."

 _Hmm, interesting,_ Hope thought, glancing covertly at Jean as they returned to the main room. _Ilya hasn't told her yet…_ She wondered how the other would react when she finally found out. It was one thing for the likes of Harry and herself to confess their deepest, darkest secrets to each other but for Ilya to tell someone who was not in the Service was going to be quite a challenge. Jean seemed down to earth, strong, almost doughty and she would need to be to process the truth when it came. Always assuming she wanted to stay with him, of course, but Hope didn't really think that was in doubt, judging by her observations over the past hour. Perhaps being a psychologist, even if her speciality was children and education, would be a help on that front. She certainly hoped so: she had developed a strong fondness herself for the tall Russian and had liked seeing him slowly lighten up over the past couple of months. She would cross her fingers that it would stay that way for him.

The two couples parted outside the club, having parked in different directions. As Harry draped his arm around Hope's shoulders she said quietly,

"He still hasn't told her."

"I know. But he's going to, as soon as the chance presents itself." His wife gave him a quizzical look. "I asked him, as soon as you two disappeared. We've discussed the issue once before: he didn't directly ask me what I thought but that's what he meant so I told him what I thought you would think."

" _Me?_ Why me?"

He kissed her on the temple and admitted,

"Because I didn't really have a clue! However, I thought you'd say he could keep quiet, have her find out elsewhere and bang, that's the end of it, or be straight with her and at least have a 50:50 chance of having her accept it for what it was and keep her in his life. Was I wrong?"

Hope shook her head and leaned against him, wrapping an arm around him and ducking her head against yet another shower.

"No. But do you think the chances are that evenly split?"

"Yes, particularly after tonight. Erin gets that blue steel in her core from somewhere and I believe it's from Jean and I don't think the woman is any sort of fool either." Using his free hand he fished the car keys out of his pocket and pressed them, the responding orange flashes momentarily brightening up the gloomy, wet street. "I think Ilya was half hoping that tonight might have been a chance but the opportunity didn't arise. I hope for both their sakes that it _is_ soon, and that she understands. God knows, none of us who were involved think he did the wrong thing."

"Hardly. There are some people who are oxygen thieves and don't deserve to survive and that one was one of them by the sounds of it." She sighed. "Lets just hope it all goes well. There's certainly no lack of interest, for all that Jean tried to sell me on the idea that they are 'just friends'! As if, with the amount of electricity between them tonight."

"Mmm, I know." Harry suddenly hauled her into his arms for a long, sensuous kiss. "Rather like us. I haven't seen you for a week and here it is, half past midnight, and we're still out of bed!"

"Well you'd better stop talking and start driving so we can fix that, hadn't you?"

Erin heard the car stop and breathed a sigh of relief. _At least she's come home again._ Although that was a stupid thought: she was as well aware as anyone that you could get up to mischief anywhere if you wanted to. Like the time she and Dimitri had– _Shouldn't Mum be back in the house by now? It's been ten minutes since they got back._ She hadn't even heard the car doors shut, come to think of it… Restless, she slid out of bed quietly so she didn't disturb Dimitri, who hadn't been home long himself, slipped on her brocade dressing gown and went to the windows where she could see the street. The car was parked just off to the right, out of view of the security lights and cameras – he didn't miss a trick, the Russian – but still just about in sight. She couldn't see much but what she did only confirmed what she had been thinking. _Canoodling was the word–_

"What are you doing?" Dimitri's sleepy voice interrupted her train of thought some minutes later.

"Nothing. I heard a car and was just wondering if it was Mum."

"And is it?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now stop spying on them and come to bed, I need to get some sleep."

She still lingered by the window, pleased to finally see the older couple exit the vehicle and walk through the blinding security light towards the front door. Once they were out of sight she expected to hear the front door but didn't, or not for another five minutes. Again, she could guess at what might be going on at the door, having done it enough herself, and it left her even more unsettled.

"Erin. Leave it! They're adults, they can do what they want and how would you like it if positions were reversed and Jean was watching you? I can just imagine your reaction to that and it wouldn't be polite. God, what are you going to be like in ten years time when it's Rosie with some under-educated, pimply-faced oik? "

The door downstairs closed quietly just as Gavrik triggered the security lights again as he returned to the car.

"I know, I know. Sorry. It's just that—well, you know."

"I'm not sure I do," Dimitri responded quietly as she sat back on the bed. "I'm not sure if it's Ilya himself, or what he did, or something else entirely. Like not being completely comfortable that Jean has found someone else."

Erin was quiet for a while, thinking about what he said and the veracity of the last part in particular. It was true that she had had no particular issue with Ilya in the past and had been quite happy to have helped stop Collison from assassinating him – another one of Elena's Machiavellian schemes – all those years ago but having her mother take up with him had been something else. She had been loathe to consider it until now but here, in the quiet dark of her room, yet another shower beginning to patter gently on the window and the words of the man she loved hanging gently in the air, she had to admit that there was some truth in what he said. Her step-father had been the best father she could have wished for – infinitely better than the drink and drug addled, violent waste of space called Kerry O'Hanlon who had been her biological father – and she still grieved his loss, as she knew her mother did, so the thought of having someone replace Gerald Watts after all this time, especially that someone being Ilya Gavrik and everything he represented, had been confronting. That in itself was not something she had cared to think about either, that she was having that sort of problem at her age, but there it was…

"You're right. Of course. Not something I'm proud to admit to but there it is." She dropped the dressing gown on the floor and joined him under the covers again just as Jean's quiet tread sounded on the stairs leading upstairs to her own suite. "Sorry. Again. It's my problem to learn how to deal with. I didn't ask how your evening went, anyway."

Spooned against his back she could feel his breathing slowing already as he headed back to the Land of Nod.

"It went okay. He seems to think that the group are about to implode so nothing will come of it yet. Did say one thing of interest, though: there's a new player on the scene. Not related to the mob he's involved in. Adem Qasim."

Erin dropped a kiss on the back of his neck and closed her eyes.

"Mmm, never heard of him."

"Neither have I. I'll give it to Waleed in the morning. If anyone can dig up information on him it'll be him…"

Not much later Ilya locked the door to his suite and dropped the car keys onto the marble hall stand. He had enjoyed taking his tail on the scenic route back here, including losing them for a few minutes, just because he could and because it meant he didn't have to think about the other thing that was on his mind, but now that excuse was done, or almost. Removing his tie and jacket on the way he went to the small kitchen, extracted a bottle of vodka from the freezer and a glass from a cupboard and returned to sit on one of the leather sofas for a little while, thinking about the day from the start to now. Malcolm's news of a mole in the ranks hadn't been a particular surprise and the revelation that he was American merely supported the conclusions he had come to regarding the watchers. He would leave the man where he was for the moment – a known quantity was always easier to deal with – and see what transpired.

Later in the day he had caught up with Vadim and been very pleased to hear that the watchers were not apparently targeting Jean when Ilya wasn't in town. Vadim had thought there might have been someone observing her movements at the university but hadn't been able to prove anything so that situation was still being monitored, discretely of course. The trawl of the CCTV footage had confirmed that the motorcyclist from near Jean's home had followed them for the entire evening but the number plate had been a fake and the machine and rider had managed to vanish on the other side of the Dartford Tunnel so that had been where it had ended. Tomorrow – make that today – would be interesting, though: at the end of their meeting Ilya had directed Vadim to organise a watcher to watch the watchers. As a result, from the time he had set off to pick Jean up until now, there had been a tail on the tail and hopefully still was. That might at least result in some more concrete information.

Taking a considered sip of the smooth liquor, he finally got back to thinking about Jean. It had been a wonderful evening again but the shadow of what he needed to do, along with the bitter realisation that this might be the last evening they had together, had hung heavy, although he hoped he had managed to hide his concern from her. Harry hadn't given him any such option: as soon as the women were out of ear-shot the Englishman had settled an uncomfortably inquiring gaze on him but had said nothing. He hadn't needed to as Ilya knew exactly what the look was for and had responded to the unasked question honestly and concisely. They had not had much opportunity to discuss it before the women returned but just seeing Harry had forcefully reminded him of their previous conversation and the decision it had led him to. That decision had actually been reinforced by the short time the group had spent together this evening: watching Harry and Hope and knowing what he did about the pair of them had given him some heart that there might be an alternative to total disaster once he had come clean. He just had to do it. This week.

His phone buzzed discretely with an incoming message. Reading it he smiled – it was Jean, wishing him good night – and tapped out a quick response before tossing it onto the coffee table, downing the rest of his drink and wearily getting to his feet. It was too late to think about it any more and in any case nothing was going to change until he had faced up to reality.

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _Ilya arrived back this morning. He rang when he got in but was then straight into meetings all day so we didn't get a chance to get together until dinner tonight at St John. When he picked me up I was expecting the usual chauffeur/bodyguard job but it wasn't, it was just Ilya, which was nice for a change. Dinner was absolutely lovely and we had a great time, lingering over dessert and wine and then going to the blues club for a while where we ran into Harry and Hope before finally heading home just before one. Then, when we got home, well, let's say a good time was had by all… We called it quits sooner rather than later, both of us too old and inflexible these days for the front seat of a car, but of course we lingered at the front door for a while. I could have gone on but it wasn't exactly practical so I let him go eventually. There is still something in his eyes that I can't quite identify but I think this visit might be where we finally get somewhere. Or at least I hope so – whatever the issue, it's already getting in the way…_

Erin's Diary:

It was after midnight when they got back and when I didn't hear her come in within a couple of minutes of the car arriving I'm slightly ashamed to admit that I got up and peered out the window, then promptly wished I hadn't. It took them a while before they got out and he walked her to the door and then there was another long break where I couldn't see but probably didn't have to. Dee told me to get back in bed and stop spying, which I did when I saw the Minister go back to the car and heard Mum close the front door. Dee then read me the riot act for interfering but I can't help it. He might think Gavrik is okay but I'm not so sure and the thought of those arms around my mother… Elena might have deserved everything she got but my mother is still my mother! At least she hasn't disappeared for the night yet, which is what I am beginning to dread. I know I'm sounding like a broken record but it looks like I'm going to have to be the one to tell her, probably very soon. And I don't know how she's going to react when I do.

Ilya's Journal:

The day went particularly slowly today and I admit that I found it hard to concentrate but the waiting was worth it. Dinner was wonderful and afterwards even more so but I'm not sure if I should have let myself relax my control as I did. We would both like to progress but that I really cannot do, not until we have discussed the other issue. I will do that some time over the next few days: it will get it out of the way and as most of my genuine business will be dealt with within the same time frame if things surprise me and go well with Jean, we may have some decent amount of time together. If not then I will know that the rest of my life will be spent alone, apart from Sasha if he ever fully recovers, and the cats. At least they only judge me as I am in the present. I just hope Jeannie is the same.


	10. Chapter 10

10\. London, Friday 31 January 2014

 _Tate Britain, Millbank, Westminster, 12:30_

The weather had taken a turn for the worse again that morning with strong winds and heavy rain sweeping across the city from the west. In fact it was so foul that Ilya had sent a car to pick Jean up from the university and take her to the Tate Britain, where they were intending on going through the Late Turner exhibition as well as the entrants in annual Turner Prize. He himself caught a cab, arriving not long after she did and both of them ending up closer to wet than damp, a source of amusement as they greeted each other in the flesh for the first time since Tuesday. As usual they had both been flat out at work all week so the rest of today was meant to be an opportunity to catch up for. a few hours and enjoy themselves, or so Jean intended. Ilya wasn't so sure about that.

The weather worked in their favour in one way at least: the gallery was unusually quiet. After they had shaken off the worst of the rain and dropped their coats at the cloakroom it was straight to the Member's Room (to Jean's total lack of surprise by this stage Ilya was a member) for lunch before making their way out to the exhibits. If the Member's Room had been quiet then the galleries were almost sepulchral with only a few other attendees and the security guards who would appear and disappear in – mostly – ghostly silence. It was almost like a private viewing and they enjoyed it immensely. By the time they got through what they had come to see and were wandering through the rest of the displays they found themselves discussing plans to visit some of the other great galleries around the world: the Uffizi in Florence, the Guggenheim in Bilbao, the Tretyakov in Moscow and even one that he was keen on but that she had never heard of, MONA in far-away Tasmania. The conversation was almost more enjoyable than the exhibits, not least because it was about a shared future, but due to that very subject Ilya knew the time had come to say what he needed to and put their future in her hands. It probably wasn't the best of locations but it would have to do.

Taking her hand and kissing it he said gently,

"Jean, before we go on with this conversation there is something I need to tell you."

Oblivious and ridiculously happy she grinned at him,

"Well, judging on recent performances you're not gay, so it can't be that! If you're finally about to confess to being ex-KGB then don't worry because I worked that out a long time ago. However, if you're about to admit to having a woman back home in Moscow I'll be less than impressed!" She knew he didn't so was only teasing but the deadly serious expression in his eyes caused her flippancy to fade away.

"No, it is none of those. However, it is about my late wife."

What came next was delivered quietly and dispassionately as they continued to slowly wander the galleries and parts of it made her hair stand on end. Starting a fair way back in time to give her some setting the story that emerged was something akin to a modern horror movie of a woman who was a complete chimaera, a manipulative psychopath who, over a time span of decades, would literally stop at nothing, up to and including murder, to achieve her end, all the while seducing everyone around her with the apparent warmth and charm that completely masked her real self. Worst of all, and the thing Ilya had clearly never been able to come to terms with, was that she had used their son as part of her games. Jean was still trying to grasp the concept of his wife having honey-trapped the man who was now a close friend when Ilya dropped the news that part of the trap had been convincing Harry that Sasha was his son, not Ilya's, thereby using the child as a pawn even before he was born. The woman was monstrous and should have been certified for the protection of herself and everyone else but of course never had been, despite being the source of so much grief and, at the end, had attempted to start an international incident by turning to terrorism and almost succeeding in causing the British Government to bring down an innocent Russian airliner.

He had been resolute in detailing the story and she had absorbed it with the respect it was due. It was an ancient Greek tragedy, something soaked in enough blood to rival even the great playwright Aeschylus, and she knew, long before he arrived at the end of the tale, what that end would be. He was quite blunt: Elena had not committed suicide in shame at her actions. Ilya, driven by an implacable need for justice for his son, had killed her. The cold, pragmatic little voice that lived at the back of her mind snorted mildly. _No. He put her down. That's what you do with mad dogs, isn't it?_ And Jean was fine with that. If even half of what he had said was true he had done the world a good deed.

It had taken everything he had for Ilya to remain calm on the surface while he was telling her. He had let go of her hand early, not wanting her to feel even remotely restrained if she wanted to walk away and not look back but she hadn't, was still here, listening to him. He had glanced at her occasionally as he spoke, watching her shoulders slowly stiffen and, he imagined, her soul harden towards him – them – at the same time. _She must have been having quite a battle just to stay and hear him out_ , he thought despondently, _but at least she had not walked, or not yet._

He was right about the internal battle but completely wrong about the subject of it. As she listened to his story Jean found herself reacting with horror and revulsion, as would anyone, but key was that those feelings were not directed at Ilya. They were aimed fairly and squarely at Elena. Even when he made the final admission that should have damned him in her eyes it didn't; instead, that cold, hard, reality-based objectivity that always lurked in her mind deemed that the woman had earned everything she got, in fact had probably got out of it easy, and her battle was with that, a side of her own psyche which had always made her uncomfortable. But, by God, she understood what had driven him. Thirty-odd years ago her own father and brothers had, finally and irrevocably, dealt with Erin's father, only just leaving him alive and she had greeted the news with the same icy objectivity she was feeling now. That man had never realised what a close escape he had had because she had made a quiet resolution, while gazing at her bruised and battered baby through a blackened eye, to find a way to kill him for what he had done. The man with her now would, she knew, have felt exactly the same and, unlike her at the time, had the wherewithal to act upon it.

Ilya had considered every likely response to this confession over the past couple of months and none of them were good but at least it was done now and all over. He glanced up at Jean to see her finally turning back towards him and steeled himself for rejection but whatever it was that he was expecting it wasn't what he got. There was an odd expression on her face as she met his eyes and gave a strange, remote smile.

"Well, if that's true it sounds like you did everyone a favour and she got what she deserved."

It didn't register for a moment. He had been strung as taut as a violin expecting a combination of revulsion and dismissal that getting any other reaction just did not make sense. The confusion was clear on his face as he looked at her and silence fell between them for a very long moment; unable to think of anything else he clutched at her words and finally responded,

"It is true. Please check with Erin and Dimitri. They were there also, had been involved since we arrived in London."

Jean's preternatural calm was rent asunder with that comment. _Erin had been involved all the way through, knew it all, always had done-_ The spinning in her mind abruptly stopped as a very large penny clunked onto her metaphorical floor.

"Well, that explains a lot." Specifically, it explained why her daughter had been so against her having anything to do with this man, particularly if she had witnessed the final act. Reaching out almost blindly she took his hand and led them a few steps to one of the leather-covered banquettes in the room. "I think we had better sit down."

He couldn't agree more, following her obediently to the seat. She retained his hand once they were seated and her eyes were an unfamiliar shade of slate blue as she gazed at him.

"You know, Erin has always been against us being together but she would never say why. Now I understand."

Nodding once he responded bluntly,

"I have been trying to find a way to tell you for months but it was almost impossible. I had never thought to find someone else but once we got to know each other that changed and you had to be told – better coming from me than from Erin or Dimitri. It was not fair to put any of you in that position and we personally could not continue without you knowing."

"No, I understand that. And I have to say that I believe it just took some guts to make that confession to me." Silence descended again but there was still no sign of hostility in it, something he was having a very hard time understanding, as he had so convinced himself to get the exact opposite.

"You did not seem surprised," he ventured carefully, completely unsure of what she was really feeling.

"No, I wasn't, not by the end. There was only one way that story was really going to end, if there is anything in the concept of universal justice." She released his hand and straightened up a little; expecting her to stand up and walk away he was relieved when instead she put her arm around him and kissed him gently on the cheek. "Oh, my love, what a horror of a day that was. I can't even begin to comprehend what you must have gone through, having all of that revealed out of the blue."

His thin, bitter smile in response perfectly presaged what came next.

"That was not the end of the day. It got worse."

Her disbelief was palpable even before she said anything.

"How could it possibly have got worse?"

"It was also the day that Sasha had his breakdown." For the first time in some minutes they looked directly at each other: The slate shade was beginning to dissipate from her eyes, reverting to blueness, while she realised the toll the conversation was having on him, judging by how very, very tired he looked. "As if his mother's revelations were not enough he also witnessed what I did. That I will regret for the rest of my life." She nodded and availed herself of his hands again as he continued. "He snapped and went after Harry – incorrectly – but got someone else instead. By accident but she still died—" A young university student walked into the room and he stopped talking but, somehow sensing the atmosphere, she quickly scuttled out again, leaving them in peace once more. His comment had set off a sudden understanding in Jean and before he could go on she said quietly,

"Ruth. Her name was Ruth, wasn't it?" _Erin had come home in a state that night, intensely distressed about the pointless death of her colleague and friend, and had then spent a large amount of the following couple of days at Harry's, on a non-stop rotating roster with some of her colleagues, including Dimitri, keeping an eye on their boss who was suffering a form of breakdown himself._

"Yes," Ilya ground out, hating that event almost more than anything else even though in the long run it had brought him something he had never expected, an unusual but firm and constant friendship with his former foe. "She was also the woman Harry loved. It was vengeance for her, and my revenge on those with whom my former wife was working, that brought Harry and I together as friends." He ran a hand over his face for a moment before clasping hers again tightly. "To end the story, Sasha took a bullet to the leg to stop him but it was too late for all of us. Too many people had needlessly died and we had all had out lives ripped apart, one way or another. If I had only recognised Elena for what she was years before perhaps I could have stopped it, or at least saved my son."

Her heart ached for the pain behind his simple words but she wasn't about to let him get away with that last part. It was understandable, in the context of survivor guilt, but under the circumstances it was never going to have been true. Gently, she challenged the statement and from there he opened up more, relieved to finally talk about it all. Without knowing any clinical details the conversation still led to a discussion of Elena's psychiatric state for although Jean had not dealt with many adult psychopaths in her practice she had come across the occasional juvenile who exhibited all the symptoms and had also seen enough of their impacts in the workplace to be able to fully comprehend the havoc they could wreak.

It turned out that the woman had been wreaking it, subliminally, almost from the start of their married life. He had put her mercurial moods early in the piece down to the crushing disappointment of her career-ending injury but looking back he realised she had just been manoeuvring him into the space where she wanted him and it had continued from there. There had been a question about whether she would have been any different had she not lost her career; Jean was at least able to reassure him that the answer was no, people with that condition tended to be born that way and that as a result her behaviour would have manifested itself in other ways, at least for a while, and most likely she would have targeted any professional rival to deadly effect.

The conversation morphed to Sasha and brought more revelations about his mother. She hadn't been keen to have children to start with but had relented when Ilya had returned from his imprisonment in Afghanistan; their first attempt hadn't made it past the fourteenth week, not long after they had relocated to Berlin on Ilya's first appointment with the KGB instead of the GRU, which had only made her more disinclined than ever to try again. Sasha had been a surprise development several months later; at first she had been open about not wanting to continue with the pregnancy until, out of the blue, she had changed her mind. He had accepted the decision with relief and happiness and hadn't questioned what had caused the turn-around but he knew better now. He was being matter-of-fact but there was a sadness in his dark eyes that broke her heart. She suspected he would have liked more than one child but clearly that option was never on the cards for the woman and then to realise, thirty years later, that she had only kept the one they had for her political games had to have been devastating as nothing else could be, for both him and the boy. No wonder it had ended the way it had for both of them.

When she said as much the small, bitter smile reappeared.

"Perhaps, although I will forever regret that he heard and saw what he did. It was too late to prevent him causing one death in her name but it is probable that the second one – Ruth – would not have happened if he had not witnessed what he did." Jean wasn't sure she had heard that one correctly and questioned him gently so he explained, equally quietly and feeling like he was digging himself and Sasha ever deeper into a grave as far as she was concerned as he did so, how his son had murdered his best friend in the mistaken belief that he was protecting his mother from being uncovered as a British spy and was now serving ten years in a high security psychiatric facility as a result.

Mind spinning again as she processed that all she felt was a huge wave of compassion for the man sitting next to her and the youngster she had never met. The more she heard the more she was certain that her gut instinct to stay with him, that he was no danger to her, was correct. Given the same revelations in the same circumstances she doubted whether anyone would have acted any differently.

His gaze had fallen to the floor again, giving him the appearance of studying it intensely although she knew he was doing no such thing. Sighing, she loosed her hands from his so she could put an arm around him and draw him into her side again and kiss him on the temple.

"My poor, poor love…"

His response, when it came, was very small.

"Am I? Is it possible that you can forgive me for what I have done and still find some room in your heart for us? That we can continue to love each other?"

Somehow her heart both broke and leapt at the same time. Leapt because it was the first time they were openly admitting that there something more than friendship between them; broke because of the desperate sadness of the circumstances and the desolation it had engendered in his eyes and voice. Unconsciously touching the Faberge swan that had not been off her throat since she had received it she replied gently,

"Of course. We've been talking about this for half an hour; if I was going to walk away I would have done it twenty five minutes ago but I find I cannot so easily turn off what my heart feels." Ilya had been wound up as tight as a drum until her words and in his relief could do nothing but lean into her embrace and let some of it go in a soundless sigh, the only other option being to crumple into an undignified heap. The full reaction would come later, on his own back in his hotel suite and no doubt a splitting headache would go with it but for the moment all he could do was bring his iron will to bear to dampen down his confused emotions and bring his attention back to the here and now. "As for forgiveness, you've done nothing to me that needs forgiveness and it is not my place to judge you on anything else. You were there. I wasn't. It really is that simple." Placing her hand on either side of his face to make him look at her she added, "I think you need to forgive yourself, though, although whether it's for putting her out of her misery before she had a chance to kill anyone else or for some self-imposed belief that you failed to protect your son, or both, I'm not quite sure."

Her words were true and he nodded, once, in acknowledgment but didn't have a chance to say anything before she kissed him gently on the lips.

"Tell me, have you ever grieved for what you lost? The woman you thought you were married to who turned out to not exist. The family and life that you also thought you had that also turned out to be a phantom? If you haven't, you need to, just as you need to forgive yourself and I can and will help you through that. That's what love is about."

He was entirely speechless from both surprise and relief that she apparently did understand and even so more incredibly wanted to remain with him. Her gaze was steady, warm and accepting and it was almost more than he could stand. It was certainly more than he deserved, he was well aware of that, but he was going to accept her offer before she changed her mind. But first, to answer her question.

"Yes. Eventually: it took some time…"

 _The truth was he hadn't really coped with it, not at first and not for a long time, but he had grieved. To start with he had kept himself insanely busy, starting with the final rites for Elena: quietly cremated as soon as they had returned to Russian soil, no-one had attended, then or when he had arranged to have her ashes interred in the grave of her parents, commemorated with a single line consisting of her maiden name and dates. Then there was Sasha: physically damaged, psychologically broken, desperately in need of help, his bodily injuries were easy to fix, those of the mind were not. Extracting vengeance in tandem with Harry and his team had filled in most of the remaining time with running himself into oblivion every day taking the rest. There had been precious little sleep in those first few weeks and he had run marathons almost every day for week upon week, once he had had to return to looking after his business, and even now his sleeping patterns remained shattered, with no sign of a return to normality._

 _Although he had appeared outwardly unmoved, internally he had been raging against Elena, against RussiaFirst, against his own self-perceived shortcomings, against his loss, against the world. Harry, being in much the same condition, was about the only person who realized but the subject was far too tender for either to consider discussing then, or even now. He continued to literally run himself into the ground, both as a way to avoid thinking too deeply and as a method of inducing what little sleep he did get. Gradually he settled into an uneasy equanimity, externally still untouched. It took almost six months for the grief to bring him undone. When it did, it was quietly and without fanfare, at what was his family's annual get-together at his eldest brother's small lakeside farm outside Krasnodar. Attending on his own for the first time in decades, three days into his stay the wife of his elder brother had found him seated by an ancient tree on the edge of the lake, knees clutched to his chest and tears streaming silently down his cheeks. In the end he stayed not a week but a month with both brothers and their wives remaining with him, until the first intimations of winter saw them packing up the farm and returning to their respective city homes and lives._

Jean could see the turmoil in the shimmering brown-gold depths of his eyes as he answered and, just for a moment, wondered if she had misjudged by being so direct and that he was going to walk – she had seen it happen enough in her practice when people were confronted – but to her relief he suddenly buried his face in her neck and clung to her tightly for a long moment. Another couple of escapees from the weather walked into the room; older than the previous student they took in the seated pair with little interest before turning their attention to the paintings on the wall.

"Ilya," she murmured into his ear, "I think we should go and have a cup of tea, or at least go for a walk around the galleries again, clear our heads a little."

They walked first, ending up peering outside through the front doors to where the rain still resembled a horizontal sheet of water in the howling wind down before going to the café for the tea. Once he had recovered his voice they continued to talk and she heard more details of the nightmare reality that had been revealed after the curtain covering it had been ripped from its mountings on that dismal day in 2011. One of the biggest horrors had been his realisation that her activities in London that year were just the last of a long line of similar behaviours over the twenty years since the fall of the Soviet Union although admittedly confined to the extents of the new Russia. He had received information initially from the CIA, of all places, by way of Harry and had followed it up with his usual tenacity, looking for every scrap of information he could find to bring down the political party for which she had been working, and it hadn't taken long to uncover not only that but his former wife's part in it. Although there was never any blood directly on her own elegant hands it became obvious fairly quickly that not only had she been in a number of cities when many medium and high profile assassinations had taken place; it seemed she had been the one on the ground co-ordinating the activity, something that had started as part of her job as the highest-ranking asset the disreputable organ of the KGB she had been part of, even before he had himself transferred to the KGB from the GRU, had ever had. That she had done so, for so long and all completely unknown to himself, had been another discovery that had left him demoralised.

There were further mentions of deaths, by design or as collateral damage, and attempted deaths but by this stage the café was beginning to pack up so they both decided independently it was time to have a break. Ilya called for the car and while they hovered just inside the front door asked quietly,

"Can I drop you home or would you prefer to go on your own? I can call a taxi."

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I want you to drop me home!"

The relief he felt was slightly disproportionate to the response but proved to him just how tense he had been about the whole thing and how glad he was that it was now all over. As a result the journey back to Stamford Brook was companionable although quiet, Jean tucked into his side as she usually was on these trips now and the pair of them watching the rain-drenched streets sweep by while they considered what had been said. When the roads became more familiar Jean asked the question that had been niggling her for a while, a response to something tugging at her memory.

"Who shot Sasha?"

The answer was plain and simple.

"Dimitri. My son had to be stopped and that was the only way. It was a good shot," he ruminated quietly, having heard her slowly draw a breathe, "because it achieved its intent but has left no permanent damage. I told him as much at Harry's wedding, although he seemed surprised that I would think such a thing."

"So would most people, my love. You really are a very unusual man."

He kissed the top of her head.

"Old fashioned, perhaps but that is how I was raised and it included acknowledging the truth, no matter what the circumstances."

"As I said, very unusual, for the present day anyway." The car eased to a stop in front of her house and she reluctantly straightened up. "Well I don't think we can say this has been the most enjoyable afternoon we've ever spent but I do think it was both necessary and very valuable. I knew there was something holding you back but would have never guessed what it was. So now I thank you for being so honest and admire you the more for it: most people would not have admitted such a thing."

"There was no option if we were – are – to go on. You needed to know the truth."

"Yes. And yes, we _are_ to go on." She kissed him again, long and languid, and this time he allowed himself to respond without the self-imposed restraint that had previously been present. "Mmm, we are most definitely going on if that was any indication!" Her blue eyes were dancing again as she gazed at him, noting a corresponding golden shimmer in his own. "Now, tell me you are not going back to work at this hour of the day."

"No, I have a meeting with my local security advisor after which we would normally go out for a drink but perhaps not in this weather so I think it may just be a quiet night at home tonight."

"Not going out for a run?" She was well aware by now of his morning routine and occasionally ribbed him about it so he just gave one of his rare, shining smiles and replied,

"No, I have already been out in the rain this morning while you were no doubt still asleep! I think my body guards would not appreciate being obliged to go out into the weather again and I am not so cruel as to make them so I may go to the gym instead."

"If I didn't have a stack of major assignments to mark I'd almost join you, or suggest we do dinner instead, but never mind. I'm about to get my exercise bolting for the front door and no, you are not going to be a gentleman and get yourself drenched again by coming with me this time. You don't need to turn up at your next appointment looking like a drowned rat."

They kissed again, farewell for the evening this time, but just as she moved to open the door he rested a hand on her arm to detain her for a moment longer.

"Jean, promise me you will spend the next few hours thinking through what we have discussed. And then if you wish to change your decision I will accept it without demur."

The sadness was back in his eyes but she understood what was driving him – a need for reassurance combined with difficulty believing her acceptance – so bit back the slightly flippant remark she was going to make and instead lifted his hand and kissed it.

"I will. I'm not changing my mind but I will do as you wish." She wasn't entirely sanguine about everything that had been said, that was true, but again it wasn't Ilya's part in the story that concerned her. Coming to terms with the fact that people like Elena existed, weren't just something dreamed up by story-tellers to terrorise their readers or case studies for the latest version of the DSM, was going to challenge her for a while, she knew that, despite having professional experience with the juvenile form of the problem. Even more challenging would be wrapping her mind around the woman's treatment of her son: Jean had come across some truly perverted souls in the early days of her clinical practice and even still with some of the young offenders she was occasionally called to consult upon but they were as nothing compared to the woman. "I'll call you later. Now you really should get going, dear heart, before you're late for your appointment."

She kissed him again and then was gone, dashing through the pouring rain and through her front door with a final wave. Feeling lighter in heart and mind than he had for months Ilya relaxed against the seat as the car moved off, taking him back towards the city, and allowed himself to wonder about the future again.

 _The Grid, Millbank, Westminster. 16:55_

Erin was ploughing her way through her own pile of paperwork and quietly wondering if her single-minded focus over the past few years of climbing to the top of the corporate tree was actually worth it – after the last week of quiet office work because all the usual and unusual subjects were hiding out from the weather she was almost champing at the bit to get back out in the field for a break – when the pods whooshed and Harry returned from his enforced visit down stairs. One look at his gloomy face told her that he hadn't enjoyed the experience of checking out where their new digs were taking shape: the news delivered from on high just after the dawn of the new year that they were being moved _en-masse_ to a new, 'more secure', floor had been greeted with dismay and something akin to uproar by everyone, including the Section Head who, much though he had always loathed the red wall and fishbowl effect of his office, also did not want to leave the area that contained so many memories of so many people who were no longer around. The design presented to them had appalled every one: mutterings of 'sardine can', 'stock-market floor', 'down-market NASA mission control' and 'cold, gloomy looking sweat-shop' had rippled around the room at the time and no-one had seen any reason to change their mind since. His expression suggested things still hadn't improved.

She was about the only one left on the floor of this, the inner sanctum, at this hour of the night. Waleed Yassine was long gone, having an unwell daughter at home; Calum had only just left, not having said much but Erin suspected to spend too long alone in the pub before continuing, also alone, back to his tiny flat, where he didn't even have a goldfish to keep him company (he had worried her of late: having never returned to his former self after what happened on the Estuary shores he had started to go downhill again after splitting with his on-off girlfriend a few months ago and was now a mere shadow of the man she had first met almost a decade before); Dimitri was chasing down an asset somewhere out on the eastern fringe of the city with Will and the junior staff had departed just before Harry returned. So far only one of the night shift had arrived – June Keaton, young, keen as mustard, she had transferred into Section D from Erin's old stamping ground, Section A, three days before – and there were still a couple of techies beavering away in their dimly-lit suite but that was it.

Harry took it all in with a single glance, including his Section Chief looking wan and tired at her desk and decided to take the chance offered by the quiet to have a conversation he thought was probably getting over-due. Stopping by her desk he asked quietly,

"Drink?"

She glanced up and sighed gratefully.

"Yes, please."

He had the whiskey in the glasses by the time she joined him and she downed half of it in one go as she flopped onto one of the leather chairs.

"Hard day?"

"No, not really. Just tedious, stuck inside. How are the renovations downstairs going?"

He scowled briefly and took some of his own drink.

"Grim. We're going to feel like we're in a nuclear bunker somewhere up in the Arctic. I thought I hated this red walled aquarium but their bright idea of interior design is going to make this place look palatial." She gave a brief smile in return but didn't say anything so after another moment he added, "How are things going at home, Erin?"

That got her attention.

"Fine. Why?"

"Are you sure about that? You've been distracted lately, to the extent that I'm getting concerned. Is there anything you want to talk about?"

She just stared at him, grey-blue eyes wide but veiled and wondering what was coming next before the penny dropped. _Of course he knew, he's a friend of Gavrik. But how much did he know? Maybe he knows more than I do…_ To her horror, she felt her eyes fill momentarily at the warmth in his tone.

"I think you already know the answer to that."

He nodded slowly.

"Your mother and Ilya."

"Yes."

He let her settle her composure before going on.

"Anything in particular? Or just a general disquiet?"

She had been thinking about that, on and off, for weeks now and had drawn a few conclusions, one or two of which she didn't particularly like, but she was willing to admit to them in the hope that articulating them to Harry might help to dispel them. She had tried with Dimitri but he was no help, his pragmatism and somewhat phlegmatic approach to anything resembling a drama having helped him survive years in the SBS but in civilian life meaning he had something of a live and let live attitude with a distinct focus on the present. It was an attitude she secretly admired but it also drove her mad sometimes and the subject of the Minister was one of the latter. Taking a slower sip of the whiskey she focussed on the swirling liquid as she replied,

"Both. The specific should be easy enough to work out: my mother is getting ever more deeply involved with a man who murdered his wife. In front of me and Dimitri."

 _That was no surprise although if ever there were extenuating circumstances Ilya had them._

"That is true but you also admitted at the time and since that he was perfectly justified in his actions. At least it was as quick and as clean as he could manage under the circumstances and that was far better than she deserved."

"I know, I know." She drained the glass and he immediately leaned forward to splash more of the amber fluid in. "Tell me I'm irrational but I really can't get rid of the image or the worry that it might happen again."

"Very well. You are irrational. But also not. It would be extremely unusual for anyone in your position to think otherwise than you do, given the events." He topped up his own drink and relaxed back into his seat. "However, looked at rationally, do you really think your mother is ever likely to push him as hard as Elena did?"

She finally looked at him again.

"No, of course not. She was a one-off and not in a good way, we all know that, you better than most."

They contemplated that particular truth in silence for a little while as the alcohol worked its warming magic. Watching her, Harry could see the battle going on in her mind but he had no doubt which way it would go: when it came down to it, she was getting more and more pragmatic with every passing year and she also would not deny the obvious truth in what he had said.

"So all you have to do, every time the image arises, is to remember everything that led to it. If it's any consolation I've got to know a lot about Ilya over the past three decades or so and he has never otherwise raised a hand to any woman or child. That is not his way."

"Well, that's something I suppose."

"It's quite a lot, as a matter of fact!" She gave a wry smile of agreement and began to feel a little better about the situation. He wasn't saying much that she didn't already know but it was still comforting, coming from someone who had known the other man for as long as he had. "If that's the 'particular' dealt with, what about the general?"

Her grimace suggested this may be an area that she was less keen to discuss but while they were on the subject she figured she might as well, even though it was likely to be an uncomfortable conversation.

"There are a number of those. Where would you like to start?"

"Wherever you would, or wherever is easier."

The expression on her fine-boned face changed to something rather sheepish.

"They're all silly."

"I doubt it, if they're genuinely concerning you."

"Then I'll start with the easy, less personal one. Is this whole thing a conflict of interest of some sort? Me, in my position living with Dimitri, in his position, and my mother who is personally involved with an FSB Lieutenant-General who is starting to spend time with us in the family home?"

Harry's mind immediately returned to the very similar conversation he'd had with Ilya whilst walking along the Embankment in the middle of the night not so very long ago. _Maybe they were more on the same page than either of them presumably thought…_

"No. It's _retired_ Lieutenant-General Gavrik – Ilya hasn't held a position with the FSB since 2010 – and in any case it's your mother he's spending time with so unless you're giving her detailed briefings on our operations then there's nothing to worry about. If or when he and Jean get very serious then I don't think he would hesitate to sign the Act if that would ease your mind – he's offered to do so often enough to me. So that is one off the list. What else?"

 _This wasn't going to be easy._ Ever since her brief, early morning conversation with Dimitri about the motivations behind her illogical reaction to her mother's new relationship she hadn't been able to leave it alone for any length of time, instead finding herself worrying away at it from all angles. However, the results were always the same and she still didn't entirely like them so admitting it to Harry was going to take some effort.

When she didn't immediately respond the man took a punt to prompt her.

"Do you dislike him?"

She'd thought about that one, too.

"I honestly don't know. No, I don't think so but then I hardly know him. Before you say it I know that's something I need to remedy. My mother loves him, my daughter adores him, Dimitri gets on with him like a house on fire, as do you and Hope so I must be missing something."

"You don't _have_ to like him. You just need to get on with him enough to keep everyone, including yourself, happy." He had picked up a subtle change of tone in her voice at one point so honed in on it. "You're uneasy about him and Rosie, aren't you."

 _How the Hell did he do it?_ Even after almost three years of working with him and experiencing his freakish, almost psychic ability to pick what people were thinking or accurately pin their motivations she still wasn't used to it. Sighing, she was the one who reached for the whiskey to top up their glasses this time.

"Yes, but not for any obvious reason. Mum has explained what it's about and I believe her but… I'm slightly ashamed to admit this but I'm a little jealous of the attention Rosie pays him whenever she gets the chance. When he's around none of the rest of us get a look-in with her and that includes me."

"I don't know that there's any reason for shame. You're having to share her more and more the older she gets – that's normal but not comfortable. However, it's highly likely that the more time she spends with Ilya the more the novelty will wear off for her and the more you will get used to it. It might even come in handy in a few years time, to have someone else to palm her off on when she starts getting difficult!"

"Maybe. And perhaps it will get easier if I can get to actually know him."

"I think so. Now for the real issue. I would hazard a guess and say that it's not Ilya at all, or not completely. It's Jean finding what I suspect is her first serious relationship since your father died."

 _God, there he goes again. No wonder the entirety of the Home Office, as well as Legoland and probably the KGB in its day, were quietly terrified of him._ She flushed pink, momentarily feeling like a school-girl caught out in a fib by the headmaster. That was the revelation she had liked least: as a grown woman, a mother herself, she felt she should have been able to be happy that Jean was moving on, had found someone who was making her happy and intellectually she was but there was that nagging, recalcitrant, inner thirteen year old who was constantly on the edge of throwing a tantrum because… _because of what? She didn't like the man?_ [No. Refer comments above about not actually knowing him.] _She hadn't been asked, let alone given her approval?_ [That's more like it, stupid though it was.] _Because she had some strange teenage idea that it was more 'romantic' that her mother should spend the rest of her life alone and mourning her step-father rather than find someone else?_ [Cringe-worthy but she had, indeed, at that age held such a patently foolish belief.] _Or, worst of all, that she was deeply uncomfortable with the prospect of her mother entering an intimate relationship with anyone other than Gerald Watts?_ [Ahhh…..hmm.] Harry, echoing Dee, had hit the nail on the head and she really didn't want to admit it to herself, let alone anyone else. Quietly, she finally responded in a very small voice.

"Yes. That may well be it. Now I'm going to call myself irrational so that you don't have to."

Harry gave that rare, warm, sunny smile which tended to make everyone either forgive him anything or just simply fall completely under his spell for however long he wanted them to and shook his head.

"Again, no, I don't think so. My first reactions were much the same when my father introduced Merleen, who became our step-mother, to my brother and I, three years after our mother had died. It wasn't easy but we got used to it. We never called her 'mother' and she never treated us like children: we came to an unspoken agreement to just respect each other and treat each other as friends and that worked. Perhaps you could try the same, if it gets that far."

"I think it's already got that far, Harry, although she hasn't disappeared with him for the night yet but that can't be far off." Swallowing the last of her drink she finally smiled back at him, feeling a little lighter. "And, when it does, perhaps I will."

A tap on the door heralded Dimitri and Will returned from the field so the personal meeting broke up in favour of a short debrief – nothing major but the name Adem Qasim had turned up again – before everyone packed up and made off for their various homes, Erin with a quiet 'thank you' to her boss. She wasn't sure she was going to be able to implement his suggestions immediately but she would certainly do so very soon.

 _Stamford Brook, 19:25_

Interesting odours were wafting from the kitchen, tantalising Jean's taste-buds as she made her way downstairs while ringing Ilya. The newish Israeli _au-pair_ , the latest in an on-and-off list since Rosie had arrived, that she had hired to help with the girl had proved to be a boon in more ways than one, not only taking to the child immediately (and _vice-versa_ ) but introducing the family to the delights of her cuisine on the nights when she cooked dinner. The meal was later than normal tonight as they had been waiting for Erin and Dimitri to come home but no sooner had that pair arrived fifteen minutes beforehand than a red flash had called them back to work after the briefest of conversations so now the food and the child could wait no longer.

At the sound of the deep voice greeting her she smiled and made her way out through the kitchen, waving at Mical on the way past, to the dining area at the end of the large, open plan space. It was dark but the wind and rain were still making their presence felt, the former whistling around every corner and the latter splattering wet bullets against the glass wall that separated the room from the small garden but just listening to him made her feel warm. After some small talk she said,

"Well, my dear, I've done what you requested and thought about everything and I'm afraid I still can't find it in my heart to hate you for what you did. There was no option other than to excise the cancer because if you hadn't she would have acted as a focal point to other radicals, no matter where you hid her. In any case, some people just don't deserve to carry on living. Call me unnatural if you will but that's just the way I see it. And that's all there is to say, really."

It was a truthful distillation of everything she had wrestled – or attempted to wrestle – with. There was no hiding from the fact that his actions were, under normal circumstances, beyond the pale but the circumstances had been so far removed from normal that none of the usual rules could be applied, in fact had been turned on their head. No matter how she looked at it, the issue had always come back to one thing: the treatment of Sasha as nothing more than a political pawn from before he was born until the very end, when Elena was quite prepared to let Harry Pearce shoot the young man in the head, a totally unfathomable mind-set. And there was something else: Ilya had only been able to do what he did because he had been given the key to the locked room holding Elena by another woman. Ruth Evershed, from all reports no slouch at her job but rather shy and reticent when it came to interacting with people, had been so horrified by the treatment of the young man by his mother that, knowing perfectly well what Ilya would, she had still enabled him to do it. With Harry's tacit permission but she, Ruth, had still been the instrument and for some reason Jean found that, if not comforting, at least supportive: that a woman who had apparently been something of a moral compass at times for her workmates realised that the tiny world within that bunker was so topsy-turvy that there was only one way for it to be rectified and only one person who really had the right to do it.

At the other end of the line Ilya still couldn't quite believe that she could see those events with such clarity but he was immensely relieved to hear her words. His meeting with Malcolm had diverted him for a small while – the watch technology was working almost flawlessly but there were a couple of software fixes that the man had done while they were in the office – and they had considered going out for a drink but the weather had indeed proven to be a major disincentive so had gone their separate ways, Malcolm home to Angharad and Ilya back to the hotel. A trip to the gym had killed a bit more time and, as usual, exorcised a few worries but he had still ended up on tenter-hooks, waiting for her call. As it happened he had just got out of the shower when the phone finally went off and, at her words, sat heavily on the bed, awash with relief. Leaning back against the bed-head and closing his eyes he murmured,

"I would never call you unnatural. Extraordinary is perhaps a better word and one for which I will be eternally grateful. You are unique, _solnishko moyo_ , to be able to understand such a situation."

"It's not so hard when you have been where I was thirty years ago, as you know. I have never forgotten that—" He heard a piping voice in the background as Rosie entered the room from somewhere, immediately guessing who was on the phone to her grandmother. "Dinner is being served so I need to go but I do have one question that's rather important."

"For you, anything."

"Are we still on for lunch on Monday?"

He laughed.

"Of course."

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _I found out what the problem is today. We went out to the Tate for lunch and were walking through the galleries afterwards, talking, and got onto the subject of our future and how we both want there to be one, together. To cut a long story short he said he had something to tell me that I had to know before we made any decisions; it_ was _what had happened a couple of years ago. He gave me all the background and then admitted that his late wife hadn't taken her own life. He killed her, because of what she was and what she had done to their son and the only thing he regrets is that Sasha was there and saw it happen. What came next shocked me. I wasn't horrified. Or repulsed. Or anything else. I actually understood, perfectly, why he had done what he'd done. And, in his position, I would have done the same thing._

 _When I looked at him he was totally devastated, waiting for the axe to fall, just about in tears and my heart broke. He's been through so much and is still paying for that creature he married, as is Sasha. All I could do was hold him, kiss him, tell him that I understood and that it was okay and that I love him anyway. He couldn't believe it; I've never seen anyone so stunned in my life. It took a while to convince him that I meant it but, once I did, he lit up like the sun. And he loves me as well._

 _Eventually we had to part - he had a business meeting and I needed to get home. We weren't going to have a chance to catch up for a couple of days and decided it probably wouldn't hurt to have a breather after that conversation anyway but we've just been on the phone so there is nothing different there. We've just hung up the phone and definitely haven't changed our minds. We love each other and that's all that matters – now it's better, if anything, because it's all out in the open, including knowing what we really feel for each other. At least now I understand what Erin's been worried about but God only knows how she'll react when she find out that I know but it changes nothing. Despite Elena, he's a good man._

Erin's Diary:

I don't know what happened today but something did. Mum is an odd mix of subdued and radiant. I know she went out for lunch with the Minister but they won't be seeing each other again until Monday. Something's not making sense here although I didn't get a chance to ask earlier and won't until the current crisis at work is dealt with. I spoke to Harry about it today – well, he spoke to me, he knew something was wrong – and all he said that, to his fairly certain knowledge, Ilya had, with the exception of Elena, never raised a hand against any woman or child. As if that's going to make it any better. I'm still going to have to tell her.

Ilya's Journal:

I told her and it makes no difference. She actually understood. And she loves me. As I love her. I feel I deserve none of this but I am so happy. I cried tonight, for the first time in two years, after we'd spoken again on the phone. She is amazing. I do not deserve any of this but will accept it and will treasure her, always. I just hope our children understand.


	11. Chapter 11

11\. London, Sunday 2 February 2014.

 _Cromwell Road, Kensington, 21:30_

Traffic was mercifully thin at this hour of the night as Erin guided the car smoothly but at speed along the road towards home. She was tired but still fizzing too much to be sitting in the passenger's seat so had elected to drive which Dimitri, equally tired, was more than happy to accept. So happy that he was currently snoozing, oblivious to the road, the weather and the radio that was playing late evening soft rock.

It had been a long couple of days, starting from the unexpected bomb blast on Friday night that had obligated the pair to turn around and head back to Millbank literally as soon as they had walked in the door at Stamford Brook. Since then they had caught cat-naps at work, managed to shower and change once, at work, and lived off the dubious offerings, at work, from the staff canteen, the kitchenette and whatever was stuffed in the back of everyone's desk drawers. The first night was spent almost floundering around, trying to work out what was going on. Saturday things started to become clearer and by the evening it was obvious that they were dealing with an internecine squabble between two Ukrainian groups, one nationalists and one pro-Russian that was threatening to spill out into the wider community. Today they had inadvertently run into a couple of their counterparts from the FSB who were working the same case and that had been interesting to say the least.

Realising who each other represented right from the start they had been cautious, even tetchy with the two men as they skirted around the issues. It was fairly obvious early on that the Russians were concentrating exclusively on the Ukrainian nationalists while MI5 were looking at both sides equally for entirely different reasons. The FSB were interested in getting as much information about the nationalists and their network as possible, for use in Kiev itself; the British were just trying to stop the violence that was increasing every day in Ukraine from spreading to their patch.

The meeting was short and as unproductive as they would have expected and was winding up quickly if not particularly cordially, and the English couple were about to turn away when one of the Russians muttered to the other, deliberately in English and loud enough to be heard by Erin and Dimitri,

"I would have thought she was on our side now that she's one of us."

Her reaction had been instant and sharp and it had gone downhill from there as the Russians needled her about Ilya Gavrik and she fired straight back, despite Dimitri's quiet attempts to get her to ignore the provocation. It finished with her smiling sharply, snapping a sudden photo with her camera and assuring them that she would be quite happy to pass on everything she had just learned from the pair of them to the General, no doubt he would take a personal interest in them. She was somewhat mollified to see the pair of them blench at the prospect of having just drawn the attention of one of the most feared, near-mythical legends of their service to their own sorry selves, before they beat a hasty retreat.

That was why she was still fizzing almost half a day after the meeting and why she was doing her best impression of a rally driver along one of London's main arteries. Not only was she still battling with the realisation that their insinuations would turn out to be true if her mother and the Minister ever formalised their relationship – the bloody man _would_ actually be her step-father which meant that murderous little bastard Sasha would be her step-brother, neither of which she even wanted to think about – but she was also wondering how that pair of smart-arses knew about the burgeoning relationship and how many others were in possession of the same facts.

 _At least the weather had improved over the day_ , she thought as her turn-off hove into view, _and the operation had ended well and now they were almost home with the delicious prospect of a couple of days off, nutters of the world allowing…_

It wanted but another five minutes to ten o'clock when Jean heard the key in the front door. The day had been busy despite it being a Sunday: Mical had taken the weekend off so she had been full-time with Rosie as well as setting exam papers for her students. Ilya had been in Aberdeen for most of the weekend at the Kapsgaz North Sea Operations HQ – a trip he had been going to take for some time and had finally done it now as a means of not sitting at home, brooding about whether Jean meant what she had said - so they had been stuck with their normal means of communication and were finishing up their final call for the evening as Erin and Dimitri arrived.

"They're home at last but look worn out," she murmured as they walked into the kitchen and waved as her in passing. Putting her wine glass down on the side table she waved back as Ilya responded equally quietly,

"They will be. It is more exhausting than anyone realises, whether you are in the field or the office and I think I do not need to tell you what it can be like coming down from an adrenaline high."

Standing up she sighed and admitted as much before adding, watching the younger couple collapse into the couches in the nook beyond the dining area,

"I'll go and see if they need anything. Good night, my dear; I'm looking forward to seeing you again tomorrow."

The younger couple heard her approaching. Dimitri opened his eyes to reveal dark pools of tiredness but gave a genuinely fond smile. Erin, still smarting over the run in with the FSB, gave her a rather more sour expression and muttered,

"The Minister again, I presume." The response was calm and in the positive, which didn't help her mood so she added, waspishly, "As if I haven't had enough of bloody Russians for one day. You've got to stop this, Mum, you've got no idea who and what you're involved with."

"Erin, don't. Not now—"

She cut Dimitri's words off with a gesture and pushed his restraining hand away.

"Why not? She's got to learn the truth some time, sooner rather than later before it gets any more serious."

"I'm still here, you know." Jean's quiet voice cut through the rising tirade with deadly force. She knew what was coming, of course, and actually agreed that it was time to get it all out in the open. Struggling to control the shake in her voice at the prospect of a confrontation that she didn't want but she knew was necessary she continued, "And I think it's about time you did tell me the truth, although I doubt there's anything you will say that'll be a surprise."

Erin's laughter was almost hysterical, mostly from stress and exhaustion but also from her own fear of what was about to happen.

"Jesus Christ, Mum, you've got no idea." She stood up, shook her head at the older woman and said, voice somewhat raised, "For starters, not only is he ex KGB but he still retains contacts at the highest levels of its replacement, the FSB, who are just as nasty as the earlier lot were. Your 'friend' the Minister isn't just a bloody politician and oligarch, Mum, he's a fully fledged General in the Russian intelligence hierarchy."

Jean didn't even blink.

"I know. I worked out the former and he told me the latter, although it's past-tense: he _was_ a General."

The response barely dented Erin's diatribe as she paced backwards and forwards across the room.

"And did he tell you what that entails? The lying, the manipulation, the violence and deaths? He's notorious inside the international intelligence community for some of the things he's done."

Still managing to retain her composure the older woman responded,

"I do know and he is aware of the reputation but he's not the only one saddled with it. Your immediate superior is another one, I believe."

Her daughter spun on her heel and glared.

"He might be but at least he's protecting what he loves!"

"So was Ilya—"

"His family might not think that, what's left of them! Stop defending him, Mum, you really have no idea of what he's done!"

Jean sighed silently, closed her eyes for a moment and then caught her daughter's stormy blue-grey gaze with her own, not stormy but flat, weary and strangely compassionate.

"I do know 'what he's done'. From that comment I presume you are talking about Elena Platonovna's death in that bunker on the Thames." It was a statement, not a question, and stunned Erin into silence while even Dimitri rocked back in his seat. _The old man has balls if he's told her that,"_ he thought admiringly, through the astonishment. _Not sure I could. And good on Jean for taking it on the chin and understanding it was a one-off…_ Neither of them had got their breath back by the time she added, "He suggested I ask you for your version of the events, as you were apparently there, to check against what he told me. So please, tell me." With that, she pulled a chair out from the dining table, eased herself into it somewhat wearily and fixed them with a basilisk stare, clearly intent on waiting until they spoke.

Erin was still white from shock and that, in conjunction with her physical exhaustion, meant she couldn't actually speak but merely sat back on the sofa, staring at her mother in utter disbelief and incomprehension. _She knew. How long had she known? And why was she was still with him?_ Dimitri, already getting over the surprise, knew the love of his life wasn't going to be capable of answering any time soon so took a breath, blew it out through puffed lips and began to speak.

"Well, we weren't there for all of it but I can tell you what we know. He told you the background to it?"

"Yes, but remind me."

He did. It tallied with what Ilya had said, as did the younger man's clipped account of that final half an hour or so but for Jean is also revealed stuff that Ilya either hadn't said or didn't know. The latter included Elena being behind the scandal that Jean vaguely remembered of MI5 assets being revealed to the press, resulting in one of them suiciding (except it wasn't a suicide) and later callously arranging the death of a man in a nameless office at a commercial complex solely as a set up for MI5 to find a false trail leading to the conclusion she wanted them to draw, not the truth, in the lead up to her attempt to set off a war between Russia and Britain. The former included some rather more personal events including that Erin had been the one to kill the would-be assassin on the night of the reception at Bannon Hall.

That was more shocking than anything else for her: Jean remembered that night vividly, as Erin had returned home in the early hours of the morning and, unusually for the grown woman but not so much for the teenager she had been, had knocked on her mother's bedroom door and come in. She had been in an oddly febrile mood, eyes bright and unable initially to sit still, instead pacing the room. It had taken a while to get it out of her but eventually she had calmed down enough to perch on her mother's bed and, in a roundabout way, it had all come out. Even later, when the adrenaline rush had worn off and exhaustion set in, it had also been revealed that this was the first time Erin had deliberately taken a life. She didn't regret it but the reality was still confronting and would take a little while to come to terms with. Now, Jean was having to quickly assimilate two things: Erin had killed to protect Ilya and she had been put in that position by the long, cold tentacles of Elena Gavrik's insane political ambitions. He had mentioned that his former wife had organised a genuine assassination attempt on him and that the plan's failure had set off a chain of events that had resulted in a string of other deaths before he had finally put a stop to it and she had thought that _that_ would be enough to make anyone do what he had done. Now she knew the rest she was glad of his actions as her protective maternal instincts flared in a sudden-white hot spurt of anger that this unknown woman had put Erin, _her_ daughter, in such a position that there was no option but to become a killer—

Dimitri was on to the events of the day so she forced her attention back to that, allowing the cold, ancient little voice that was buried in her core to be deeply satisfied with the denouement. Although Ilya had also been open about the cover-up that had followed the ultimate act he had not bothered with the details that were subsequently revealed by Erin, once she had her voice back and, somewhat dully, took over the narration. It seemed the old spooks had, through some Herculean effort of will, put their screaming, tormented souls to one side ( _avoidance behaviour,_ she immediately thought) for long enough to do what was necessary to protect the political partnership for which so much blood had been spilled. Their calm, methodical approach to turning an assassination into a suicide had set Erin aback, almost made her angry and talking about it now fanned the flames again so that she finished with a harsh,

"He's nothing more than a cold-blooded murderer, Mum! You really need to stop this."

Her voice echoed around the room at a pitch higher than she would have liked, reflecting her frustration. Dimitri laid a hand on her arm but she shook it off, realising it was too late to take back what had been said and her eyes suddenly bright with tears.

Jean took a deep breath but remained calm. Nothing that had been said about the crucial events of the day in question was new or surprised her, knowing Ilya and suspecting that Harry was cut from the same cloth. And nothing that Erin had just said surprised her either: she was well aware of her daughter's problems with the relationship and now understood the reasons why so in a way it was a relief to finally have it said. Blinking slowly her response was composed but quietly pointed.

"If Ilya is a murderer then so is Dimitri and Harry and Hope and so are you."

Erin went white again and her eyes flashed.

"That's different! You can't compare what we've done to him—"

"No, it's not." Jean could feel her control slipping but managed to keep a rein on her voice, although the tone was harder.

"It is. Whatever we've done was in the line of duty—"

"And so has Ilya. Including executing his wife. You didn't disagree when Dee said that she was a threat to international security that had to be dealt with and in such a way that she wouldn't become a martyr so I can't see much difference between that and what you did to that assassin."

"I wasn't married to the assassin!"

"No and you hadn't just found out that he'd been psychologically abusing your child for its entire life and using you as a political pawn for longer than that while pretending to love both of you."

"That's no excuse."

"No, it's not an excuse. It _is_ a reason, no matter how unpalatable. Everyone has their breaking point: it took Ilya nearly forty years to reach his, under circumstances that would have defeated any of us long before that."

Erin couldn't actually deny that and in itself that just served to stoke the flames of her ire. Taking sharp steps towards the older woman she responded severely,

"Be that as it may he's still not the sort of person that I'd want to see you with after Dad! How are you ever going to trust him?"

"Erin, that's probably enough," Dimitri interjected gently but neither woman heard him.

"What, so I'm not entitled to get a life back at my age? All I'm good for is being a doting grandmother? You're wrong, you know, on both fronts, as you'll realise the older you get. I find it quite easy to trust him! He's never lied to me; how many people do you know who would have admitted to killing their wife without being forced?" She suddenly stood up and walked back to the kitchen to top up her wine glass. "Jesus, Erin, how stupid or desperate do you think I am? I'm neither, as it happens, and I've spent days thinking about all this and I can't for the life of me work out how I could possibly put him in a similar position even if I wanted to! As if he would let it get anywhere near that far anyway: he'd walk long beforehand if he got even a sniff that things were going down the same path again." Taking a swig she slammed the glass down on the kitchen counter and glared, the fire in her eyes not entirely disguising the tears that were also there.

"I don't know how you can be so sure after such a short time that he won't turn on you—"

"Because I've been there before, in case you'd forgotten! Ilya is more like Gerald than you realise but he's nothing like Kerry bloody O'Hanlon. Have you _ever_ wondered why your biological father ended up in that wheelchair before he drank himself to death twenty years ago?"

Erin quailed a little at the fury coming out of her mother, responding quietly.

"He knocked you around."

"He didn't stop at knocking me around. When you were six weeks old he included you. I was in hospital with broken ribs and a bruised spleen and you had a fractured arm and dislocated collar bone. When your grand-dad asked me what he could do to fix the problem I told him he could kill him if he wanted to. So he took your uncles – including Ruairidh, who you know literally won't hurt a fly – and they went after Kerry. They stopped short of killing him but the wheelchair was the result. And to this day I don't have a single regret about it. If you think I can't recognise a man prone to domestic violence then you're entirely wrong!" She dashed tears from her eyes as Erin did the same, both their tempers beginning to subside. "Like the rest of you, Ilya's a good person, Erin. Just give yourself a chance to find that out."

Her daughter had gone a sickly shade of grey at the words (hearing in the terminology a sibilant whisper from the chill ghost of Elena Platonovna) but Jean didn't have time to find out why as a small, distressed voice came from the hallway,

"Stop it! Please, Mummy, why are you fighting with Nanna?"

Both women stopped dead as the owner of the voice, attired in her favourite ballerina nightshirt, appeared in the kitchen, blue eyes huge and troubled and they finally realised just how loud and acrimonious the discussion had become. Stricken, the older pair looked at each other before Erin rushed forward to scoop Rosie into her arms.

"Sorry, sweetheart, did we wake you up? We're not fighting, we just got a bit excited talking about something."

"It sounded like you were fighting," the child responded, her voice but not her anxiety muffled by Erin's embrace. Swamped by guilt, Erin took a deep breath before she replied, loud enough for both her daughter and her mother to hear,

"Well, maybe we were arguing a little but it's all over now and we've sorted it out."

Despite all three females being in tears the sole representative of the masculine gender breathed a silent sigh of relief. It was too late at night and everyone was too tired for this sort of drama and he was glad it was now done. He knew Erin would spend the rest of the night chewing the events over in her mind, despite the exhaustion, but he also knew that by morning she would almost inevitably come to the conclusion that her relationship with her mother was more important than a philosophical argument. Deep down, he was pretty sure that she wanted to see her mother happy; even deeper, he suspected there was even a spark of liking for the tall Russian, if only because of the uniformly positive effect he was having on Rosie and that, if nothing else, might be enough to start making her accept the situation for what it was. Or so he hoped.

 _Royal Athenaeum Suites, Union Street, Aberdeen, Scotland, 22:30_

The chill, blustery showers that had dogged Ilya's morning run – taken on his own for the first time in a very long time – down to the point at Pocra Quay and back _via_ The Esplanade had started to wear off mid-afternoon and now, at this hour of the night, all was quiet outside his single bedroom hotel suite. The peace was welcome after yesterday, when he had flown in through half a gale and heavy rain, the plane thumping enthusiastically onto the tarmac and fortunately sticking there despite the slick runway surface that was awash with rain, and had then endured a slow trip into the local Kapsgaz offices in St Magnus House, opposite Trinity Quay, as his Technical Services Manager had carefully wound her way through the Saturday morning traffic on somewhat treacherous roads.

His weekend had been purposely busy but not all work, having hosted a dinner the night before for his senior staff and representatives from his most important contractors with a more casual get-together for his employees and their families this afternoon to celebrate his North Sea operations achieving ten years Lost Time Injury Free both on-shore and off-shore. The latter had been more enjoyable than the former (although catching up with both his own and his sub-contracting people had been invaluable) but he had missed Jean's presence at both and had been glad of their evening phone calls to assuage the loneliness. The way the one tonight had ended, though, had left him a little unsettled. It had only been two days since the discussion in the art gallery where he had laid it all on the line and despite Jean's repeated assurances he still wasn't confident about their future. On top of that, he knew Erin had been away all the time since; with her return tonight he had a feeling that it wouldn't be long before the two women had a 'discussion' about it all and he suspected that it wouldn't be pretty.

Restlessness wouldn't allow him to retire for the night yet, despite an early flight back to London in the morning (he had nearly changed the booking to tonight but had overridden the impulse as he knew it wouldn't achieve anything), so he had made a cup of tea and was now standing at his window, gazing out over the empty nightscape while he fruitlessly replayed the events of Friday yet again in his mind. It had needed to be done, had been done, had gone better than he had expected and now he was in the waiting phase where control had passed entirely out of his hands. That wasn't something he was used to but he realised he had no choice in this case.

The niggling worry about what might be going on in the house in Stamford Brook reclaimed his attention as he finished the drink. _This wasn't doing any good, standing here staring out the window at empty streets and buildings._ Taking the cup over to the sink and picking up his phone to tap out a brief message, he was gratified by the instant response, so followed up with the speed dial.

Jean was on her way up the second flight of stairs to her loft when the text came through and had just shut the door when the phone rang. She answered on the first ring with a sigh.

"Hello, my love. I'm very glad you've called again."

Flopping into the comfortable chair near her desk she was unconsciously echoing Ilya's movements as he settled into a leather armchair that was positioned to allow him to keep gazing out at the empty square while they talked about what had just happened. By the time they finished it was well after eleven, Jean was much calmer and Ilya was relieved of his niggling concerns, at least for the moment.

In London, deep in the labyrinth of offices behind the official front of the US Embassy, Ted Michaeli, working late on another job, received a secure text from Langley on his phone. One eyebrow quirked upwards as he read it: it seemed that Head Office were getting more worried about Russian influence in Syria and wanted some answers, as fast as possible. He would have to call Don tomorrow so they could review the plans that had been on the back-burner for a while.

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _That didn't take long. I'd cleaned up after dinner, put Rosie to bed and was kicking back with a glass of red and finally catching up with Ilya on the phone when Erin and Dimitri returned. Both looked totally fagged out – they've been at work non-stop since Friday night – but I gather the crisis has been averted, although it may not have gone well. To keep it short she went absolutely ballistic when I'd ended the call and finally lectured me on exactly what sort of man I'm keeping company with. I let her go before quietly informing her that I already knew all of it as he'd already told me, including about Elena. That took the wind out of her sails so I asked to hear her side of what had happened that day. In the finish it was Dee who did, as she was still shocked that I already knew, and it tallied exactly with what Ilya had said. Then she came back for another go, basically saying that he's nothing more than a murderer and I'm ashamed that I cracked and pointed out to her that so is she, and Dimitri, and Harry and that nonetheless Ilya's a good man and they are all good people. She went white at that comment (Dee later told me that Elena had said exactly the same thing about Ilya not long before he put her out of her misery) and ended up in tears, I was in tears, Rosie appeared from upstairs in tears and poor Dee was left to sort us out. I think we're okay but time will tell. Ilya must have picked something up somehow because he just called so I told him. He was philosophical and pointed out that now there was nothing more to hide so it should be a good thing. He's right, of course, and just the sound of his voice settled me down._

 _Sometimes I wish I had a normal family. But then I wouldn't have met Ilya._

Erin's Diary:

She already knows. He told her, everything. And it makes no difference, apparently. We had a blazing row tonight and I said something I shouldn't, she finally lost her temper and pointed out a few home truths and it was left to Dee to pick up the pieces. I don't know what I'd do without him. I'll need him in future because it's looking like Ilya Gavrik is going to become a family member, whether I like it or not. Mum's taking him on face value _because_ of how honest he was so I suppose we have to do the same. She does have a point: not too many men would have confessed _that_ particular crime to their new girlfriend. On top of those smart-arses from the FSB earlier on I really didn't need the rest of it. I've had enough for one day.

Ilya's Journal:

Jeannie tells me it all came out tonight, after our earlier conversation. I wasn't going to call her back tonight but I sensed about half an hour ago that all was not well so I did. I'm glad it's all out in the open because now we can all move on, knowing exactly where we all stand. I would have liked to be there tonight to comfort her but that will have to wait until tomorrow and the weekend, now that I have cleared my schedule so that we can spend some time together, uninterrupted.


	12. Chapter 12

12\. London, Thursday-Sunday, May 2014, London.

 _Berkely Square, Thursday 22 May 2014._

Harry had felt a debt of gratitude towards Tallulah Zanon ever since she had been the one to specifically call off the CIA dogs after Jim Coaver's death. They had kept in professional touch since and, once the woman had been elevated to running the local CIA desk as Acting Director, albeit only temporarily, he had used the opportunity to instigate semi-regular, although deeply off-the-record, meetings so they could keep each other up to date on areas of likely cross-over. Now, the 'temporary' elevation had been in place for over 12 months and was starting to look like it would stay there until her retirement towards the end of the year and with the increasingly precarious state of global security their little catch-up sessions had developed into something rather more important.

As a result it hadn't been a surprise when she had suggested morning tea at a discrete little café that she favoured near Berkeley Square. He had arrived first by a couple of minutes and was making a show of perusing the menu when she joined him, noiselessly as ever: first she wasn't there, then she was, carefully placing her helmet on a spare chair and draping her Kevlar jacket – in green and black, to match her Kawasaki bike – on the back rest. It made him begin to understand how he un-nerved his underlings whenever he pulled the same stunt on them…

They spent the first fifteen minutes or so, while the waitress was to-ing and fro-ing and they started to enjoy their coffee and cake, catching up on innocuous personal news and discussing – generically – the events in Syria and Ukraine. Finally, though, those coal-black eyes fixed the man with an intense look and the gentle Southern voice said,

"Well, Sir Harry, this is all very nice but I'm sure you realise I brought you here for more than a catch-up."

He quirked an eyebrow at her.

"I presumed so."

Nodding an acknowledgement the woman continued languidly,

"There are two items. The first involves your Russian friend and I suspect you know at least some of it." The man said nothing, just continued to hold her look. "Our most disreputable division has quite an interest in your friend and has had for some time."

Harry nodded slightly before returning his attention to the remains of the old fashioned but outstandingly delicious apple pie on his plate.

"Yes, I am aware that he has been followed every time he is in town for at least six months, as is he. We suspected the source but didn't know they were such SAD little people. We're not sure why, either, although we have our suspicions."

"Those suspicions are probably correct. I haven't been able to find out much but my contact tells me that he is being targeted because he is the most easily accessible of those they believe to be involved with al-Assad. And now he has a friend who may be used as bait if they fail to take him." Harry's heart sank at the words: they weren't a surprise and Ilya was as awake to the risk as he himself was but now they had been spoken aloud by someone else it made the concept much more concrete. He may well have to brief Erin and Dimitri, particularly if there was a genuine threat to Rosie: that was the one thing that Erin wouldn't be able to take again. "I'm looking for every opportunity I can to get rid of this pair, they've been trouble since the day they arrived, but they don't answer directly to me. However, I also have my team on it – you may remember Brontee Sorenson and D'wane Brandon – so if there's the slightest chance I can nobble them then I will."

He did remember the younger pair, again with gratitude, and felt a little better knowing they were on the case but even so would have to consider what more he could do from his end.

"Yes, I do remember them, fondly for obvious reasons – things would have been very difficult for me had not they, and you, spoken up in my favour after Jim's death. And thank you for the update, I will let my friend know. I believe he already has things in train to protect the lady but I may well discuss it with the appropriate personnel as well."

She smiled that elegant, gracious smile which always made him think, if he didn't know her better, that she would have appeared quite at home at the head of a grand walnut table laid with silver and flowers inside one of those ornate, atmospheric mansions on St Charles Avenue in New Orleans, and said no more. Returning to the every day banalities of what their children were up to they eventually finished their repast and made for the door. Once through she laid a hand on his arm for a moment and said,

"The second item, Harry, may turn out to be more significant for you in the long run." The tone of her voice made him stop and turn to her, questioning. "They have finally made a decision on who will take over my position here." She named names but it meant little to Harry: he had heard of the man – a career desk spook who would have been better off in politics – but knew little else. "He won't take over until I retire but he has strange ideas about intra- and inter- departmental co-operation and he's already talking up 'increasing the already close relationship with our British colleagues' so watch your back. He's an underhanded little gutter-snipe and generally finds someone inside his target to help him achieve his aims: just keep that thought in the back of your mind."

Tallulah would later replay his reactions with interest. He had been totally unsurprised by her comments regarding Ilya Gavrik and Jean Watts although there had been considerable concern in the dark brown eyes when the threat to the woman was made clear. The news about her replacement had been taken rather differently, though. There was nothing obvious, of course – Harry Pearce was renowned for his ability to remain totally bland under the most trying of circumstances or, alternately, for the ease and brilliance of his misdirection – but she picked up the hard, brightening glitter in his eyes and an almost subliminal sharpening in his attention as she had spoken. He had taken what he needed and filed it away for future reference; she didn't know if it would proved useful or not but at least now he knew and could keep watch for anything untoward in that direction.

She had been unsure of exactly how much to tell him but in the end had, correctly, decided that he probably wouldn't need details, although if it came to it she would have no hesitation in handing over anything they had dug up. The work of Brontee and D'wane had been circuitous and slow but had paid some dividends. Between the pair of them they had uncovered a pattern of movement by Galloway and Michaeli that was carefully random but a pattern nonetheless that confirmed that they were tailing the Russian and, to a lesser extent, Jean Watts although they had quickly devolved the actual monitoring to a couple of juniors who didn't know any better. The juniors – particularly Amy Wilson, who had been at the prominent pre-Christmas dinner when Ilya and Jean had first appeared in public as a couple – had, as suspected, also been involved in getting vehicles under false names or false companies for their elders to do some of their more suspect meanderings around town. Tallulah couldn't exactly fault the juniors for following orders but she was also not impressed that they hadn't come to her; they were, after all, supposed to report to her, not the pair from the Special Activities Division. Because of it, she doubted their careers would prosper, or not in the more official arms of her organisation.

The destinations of the patterns had not entirely been identified. Of the two unknowns, one was definitely a military facility near RAF Lakenheath, home of the US 48th Fighter Wing among other things, that she knew was used for technically illegal activities up to and including preparatory activities for renditions. The other was more diffuse. Somewhere out to the east of the city and in the vicinity of London Airport was about all they could work out at this stage. There was industry out there but also abandoned buildings on the river side of the Airport and their destination could have been anywhere. She would continue to let Brontee and D'wane do their careful, pedantic, thorough sifting: wherever and whatever the other pair were doing, her two would ferret it out. She just hoped it was before anything happened.

 _Taj Suites, Buckingham Gate, Friday 23 May 2014. 18:15._

Jean heard the shower start a few seconds after she closed the door to the suite so at least she knew Ilya was home. Tossing her bag on the side table and kicking her shoes under it she turned right, away from the bedroom, and walked past the small kitchen into the dining/sitting room and over to the sofa. Collapsing into it she inhaled the scent of high-end leather whilst smiling at the champagne bottle in its ice bucket and the two glasses sitting on the coffee table. Champagne Friday had become a regular occurrence since they had got together and was a great way to end any sort of week, including this one. Pouring herself a glass of their favoured French bubbles she relaxed back, took a sip and thought about how much her life had changed in the almost three months since the day she had found out the truth to his past.

 _They had become lovers within a week of the surreal conversation in the art gallery. Despite approaching the revelation from every direction she could during that time – and since - she hadn't changed her conclusions on any of it so by the time they went out for dinner and a show the following Friday she had decided that she would do something about moving them forward. In the event she hadn't had to put her plan into practice when it became evident he had been thinking along the same lines. When they had emerged from the theatre, still smiling after the show, Ilya had taken her hand, drew her in to his side and asked quietly,_

 _"Will you stay with me tonight, Jean?"_

 _There had only been one possible response for her to that question and it had led to a long weekend that had been the start of a new phase in both their lives. Regarding each other as lovers hadn't lasted long; the way they had fitted into each other's lives, wildly disparate though they were, and the speed with which it had happened had been something of a revelation and was reflected by them separately and unconsciously moving to the term 'partner'. That, in turn, had moved from the unconscious to the conscious only a few weeks ago, when Jean had hauled Ilya along to a faculty function she couldn't wriggle out of and, without thinking, had introduced him to her Head of Department and a few other staff as her partner from the get-go._

 _They were a long way from living together, though; still busy with their respective work and with Jean being tied to the University, Ilya had started to organise his time so that he was in town about every second week and, whenever he was, Jean joined him here at Buckingham Gate where he had a permanent reservation. She had also managed a couple of weekends in Moscow. That had been very much a surprise. The city was far more alive and colourful than she had expected (having grown up on grainy cold-war images of a grey, grim metropolis with a dour population), although every bit as cold and still with something of an alien touch to the atmosphere that she thought probably came from the combination of Mediaeval, Soviet Brutalist and modern glass architecture jostling cheek by jowl with Cyrillic writing everywhere and the glittering night horizon over which loomed the red stars that had been such a symbol of the old USSR._

 _Ilya's home, it turned out, was in one of the modern constructions, although not quite the part of the complex that she would have expected. Having walked out of the overblown mansion that had been Elena's dream house – and far too close to the Levrov home – on the outer edges of the garden ring of the city on the day of her cremation and disposed of the property at a vastly reduced price very shortly thereafter he had moved to a brand new, two-storey penthouse in the city, on the Ozerkovskaya Embankment in the historic Zamoskvorechye district. Part of the Aquamarine complex (at least she thought the Cyrillic looked like the word 'aquamarine' and Ilya had later confirmed that she was right), when they had first driven up Jean had assumed that they were going to the slightly French-traditional looking accommodation complex but instead they had disappeared into the cavernous underground car park of the taller, bright white, curvaceous office development. The vehicle had been parked in its own secure area and a fast, smooth private elevator had taken them to his home, after a brief stop the floor below to let the chauffeur out into what was apparently an entire level devoted to the accommodation of his closest permanent staff and which in turn was above the two floors of offices that comprised the Kaspgaz global headquarters._ 'In other words', _she had quipped later and much to his wry amusement,_ 'you live above the shop!'

 _Once those lift doors had opened for the last time Jean had almost gasped out loud. This entire half of the floor was open plan and directly opposite the entrance was an entire wall of floor to ceiling glass leading on to a spacious balcony, beyond which was a spectacular view of the city, at that hour of the evening a sea of multi-coloured lights with those Soviet stars glowing ruby above it all. Within a minute, though, her attention had been drawn away from the external view to the internal as she realised that the living area, although austerely furnished in muted, high-end articles, was studded with carefully placed and perfectly lit pieces of artwork, some of which she recognised from the auction rooms in London. The most spectacular was an icon of exquisite silver filigree and blue enamel that was encrusted with seed pearls and jewels that she knew was a Faberge but there were others that were museum quality, including paintings by Cherednichenko and Matushevsky and a couple of silver and cloisonné enamel_ kovsh _that she thought she recognised from the London show rooms_. _There had been no chance to say anything, though, because a lilting voice with a warm Irish accent came, in English, from the direction of the kitchen._

" _Welcome back, Minister and good evening, Mrs Watts. Everything is ready for you."_

 _The woman who appeared with the voice was late forties with faded fair hair and warm brown eyes. Dressed in neat dark trousers and a white shirt she appeared competent and professional; for some reason it had never occurred to Jean that Ilya would have someone to look after his place while he was away._

" _Thank you, Roisin. Jean, this is my housekeeper, Roisin Curry. Roisin is the wife of Diederick du Plessy, who drove us home tonight and who is my Head of Personal Security. They have both been with me for many years."_

 _The women shook hands and exchanged the usual pleasantries before Roisin turned to Ilya again and said,_

" _The girls are still upstairs, Sir, although I'm sure they will be down as soon as they hear you. If that's all then I will bid you both good night."_

 _Jean soon found out who 'the girls' were. As the pair made their way upstairs to the master bedroom suite she heard bells gently tinkling; following the sound she saw the source. Two elegant Tonkinese cats were loping along the corridor towards them from the sitting area. Barely acknowledging her they headed straight for the man, winding around his legs and vocalising enthusiastically. He laughed and stopped for a moment to pick them both up, the smaller one making herself comfortable on his shoulder and the other tucked under one arm._

 _"This is Anna—" he patted the one on his shoulder "—and this is Olga. They have kept me company since I moved here." Somehow managing to balance both animals and carry her suitcase he led her to their room, adding matter-of-factly but with a bitter edge, "I always had pets when I was young and Sasha desperately wanted some but Elena did not like animals. He had to content himself with those on my brother's farm whenever we visited."_ And that said it all, she thought. The woman didn't like animals and she treated those closest to her as nothing more than tools, irregardless of the cost— _Stepping into the spacious chamber she saw something that totally diverted her thoughts, the final surprise of the day. On the wall directly opposite the end of the enormous bed, where many people would have a television, was a large oil painting. One she had definitely seen before, in an auction room in London. Eyes wide, she gazed at him, astonished, before approaching the artwork with reverence, losing herself again in the portrayal of crashing green waves raging against a sharp, jagged grey cliff, a few birds being tossed by the gale and a steam ship just visible through the rain, battling the storm. It was the Aivazovsky from Sotheby's that they had both so admired._

 _"Oh my God, you bought it."_

 _"How could I not? It is magnificent. And we both loved it." As before, they had stood before the work in mute astonishment; this time, he had slid his hands down her arms and around her waist, pulling her back against him, as they had both wanted to do on that previous occasion_ —

A similar movement brought her back to the present as he leaned over the back of the sofa, hands resting on her shoulders, and gently kissed her cheek.

"Hello, my dear. You were deep in thought."

She moved up a little and poured more champagne as he sat next to her. Handing over the drink she smiled at him and replied,

"I was just thinking of our painting. I really must get you over to the islands one day, if you've not already been."

"No, I have not and we will, sooner or later."

She twinkled at him.

"It'll need to be sooner – I had a call from my brother Ruairidh today. He's the one who still lives on Barra. Despite that, he's managed to come across a picture of us from the Christmas do last year and now he wants to know all about you. And so does the rest of the family." She sighed and slouched against him. "Sorry. My family are like that."

Draping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in to his side he responded cheerfully,

"I think most are. Mine are no different and wish to meet you also, when we are ready."

Arching an eyebrow at him – it was news to her that his brothers knew anything about them – she replied,

"Do they just? When did you let that slip to them?"

It was Ilya's turn to sigh and take a sip of the champagne.

"At the birthday of my youngest niece last time I was home. My sisters-in-law should have joined me in the KGB: they are very good at extracting information!"

They continued to catch up on each other's day while curled together on the seat, enjoying the wine and planning their evening and weekend and had just about decided not to bother going out for dinner when Jean's phone rang. It was Erin, in a flap because she and Dimitri had been red-flashed from Thames House. Having been planning a quiet family weekend for the start of Summer half-term they had given Mical the time off and she was now in the Channel Tunnel somewhere, on her way to Paris to catch up with friends and as a result Erin was begging for a baby-sitter for Rosie. Dimitri had already left for Millbank and Erin was about to get the neighbour to sit with Rosie until Jean could get there. If she could get there.

"Of course we'll be there. You go and don't worry."

When she ended the call Ilya raised one elegantly arched brow and said,

"Erin."

"Yes. Something's come up at work – you'd have a better idea than me what that might be – so they both have to go in and the _au pair_ is off for the weekend so Rosie needs a minder. I said we would go." She suddenly hesitated, aware that this would be the first time he would spend the night at her place. "If you would like to. I can go, or bring her back here if you prefer."

Unfolding his long frame from the sofa he kissed her forehead and reached for his own phone.

"Do not be so silly. We must go immediately. I will call the car."

 _Stamford Brook, Sunday 25 May 2014, 10:20_

Jean was making tea when there was the sound of a key in the front door announcing the return of Erin and Dimitri. Still dressed in what they had been wearing on Friday night, they both looked drained and haggard when they came into the kitchen, barely having a chance to greet Jean when Rosie jumped up from her chair at the table in the nook adjacent to the back door where she had been working with Ilya on a school project and raced over to her mother.

"Mummy! Come and look: I'm building a _volcano_ with Dyedushka!"

"Have you only just remembered your assignment for school again?" The child nodded, unabashed and with no trace of the panic that had been in her voice an hour beforehand. "Well, you're very lucky to have someone to help you." She glanced over towards where Dimitri and Ilya were standing, talking, and suddenly realised she didn't know what she thought. For some reason she hadn't been expecting to see Gavrik when they got home but then, half a second after the shock of seeing him with his head together with Rosie in her own house, the pair of them cheerfully getting covered in glue and poster paint, she remembered her mother's use of the word 'we' during the phone call on Friday evening. There was also the small point that the older couple had been co-habiting for months now so of _course_ they would both come home…

Dimitri was saying something about excusing himself to go upstairs for a shower and to catch up on some sleep; like the proverbial anvil falling from the sky, exhaustion meant Erin suddenly felt too drained to even think straight and yearned longingly for hot water and soft bed herself. Blinking, she realised Dee had gone while Rosie was still tugging at her hand, Jean was gazing at her with some anxiety and Ilya was approaching with what might have been interpreted as actual care in his unusually coloured eyes.

"Rosie, Mummy's really tired. Why don't you go and finish your model while she has a nap and then you can show her later, when it's finished and dried out?" So saying, Jean extracted her grand-daughter and walked her back to the work table, leaving Ilya and Erin together, alone, for a moment.

"Minister."

"Miss Watts." Their usual formal greeting. Erin was about to make her excuses when the tall Russian added quietly but acutely, "The past few days have perhaps not been entirely successful?"

She looked at him properly then and realised that there was nothing but genuine concern behind the question. Sighing, she nodded.

"You could say that. It's definitely been one of those weekends, if you know what I mean."

His smile was sympathetic.

"Yes, I do."

A little connection suddenly fused in her fatigue-addled brain and her light, grey-blue eyes widened as she realised he was undoubtedly telling the truth. With the exception of Harry and, maybe, Hope, of everyone she knew at the moment Ilya Andreivitch Gavrik was the one who probably did understand every nuance of her position. The room moved in and out of focus for a moment and she fought back the desire to cry as she gave a sharp nod; the man, watching her pale for a second and support herself with one hand against the kitchen island and fearful of her collapsing in a heap, reached out his own hand for a moment to touch her upper arm.

"I would make you tea but I think you need sleep more. We can talk later if you wish."

There was nothing but pure, open empathy in his deep voice and normally opaque eyes. Erin's smile was a little tremulous and she didn't quite believe it when she heard herself saying,

"I might hold you to that. Including the tea."

"Please do."

 _Grosvenor Square, Sunday 25 May 2014 19:15. Scattered showers_

"He's still there, playing happy families _chez_ Watts," Don Galloway announced morosely as he settled into his seat in Ted Michaeli's small office.

"I still can't believe it took twenty four hours to find him in the most obvious spot when he 'disappeared'," the older man grumbled, pushing aside a stained mug with the dregs of his last coffee, now cold, in it. "What the hell were those kids playing at? I hope you've kicked their asses half way back to Langley for making us miss our chance."

"They said they had no evidence of him being there although they obviously didn't try very hard to find any. Don't worry, they're on a one-way ticket to Colombia as soon as I get a chance to slip them out past the old girl. I still think she doesn't trust us, which doesn't make it any easier."

Michaeli shrugged.

"Who cares about Tallulah Zanon? She's outta here in a few months so she won't be rocking any boats." Pulling a pack of gum out of his desk drawer he removed a piece before tossing it over to Galloway. "Anyway, she's not my problem. Gavrik is. Head Office isn't pleased the plan got short-circuited so now they're really going to be on our damned case." Next, he drew a file out of the haphazard pile on the end of the desk. "Have you seen this? The latest development to come from our Moscow contacts."

The younger man flipped through the documents.

"Well, that's one of the benefits of being in his position – a twenty five percent share of a thirty year, $400 billion gas supply deal with China as a partner of Gazprom. Nice if you can get it. He won't have to work again."

"He doesn't have to work now but you're missing the point. The man is one of the top power brokers in the Kremlin, including being a senior advisor to Putin's security council. He's got a good smoke screen in place to make it look otherwise but this just proves the point and Langley are itching to get their hands on him for a multitude of reasons, this gas deal being small fish compared to Syria."

"There's still no proof he's up to anything non-business related over there." Galloway pointed out as he dumped the file back on the desk and yawned widely. "We've spent a lot of time on him for fuck-all result so far."

"That's what he wants us to think. Just like that he's no longer involved in the FSB: we all know that's a crock of shit and so is this innocent-businessman-abroad crap. No-one goes to Damascus these days just for business and he's usually got that intergovernmental panel with him, or some of the Russian members anyway. We know for a fact that they're not as squeaky clean as they pretend to be and Langley maintains neither is he."

Galloway shook his head at the other man's intransigence on the subject. He himself had been starting to wonder if they were on something of a wild goose chase.

"Yeah but they said that about him and Ukraine and they were totally wrong. He hasn't been near the place personally for years, not since his company's gas pipeline was built and even then Kaspgaz was the junior joint-venture partner." The younger man took some gum out of the packet and popped it in his mouth. "I'm not saying Gavrik is innocent but I'm not convinced he's worth the energy we're expending on him."

"It's not up to you to be convinced any more than it's up to me. We're just here to do what we're told and I've been told that our friend the Minister is up to his long neck in placing various 'experts', particularly of the intelligence variety, on the ground with Assad's forces. He's got contacts and tentacles everywhere and is one of the lynch pins of the Russians' plans."

Galloway laughed dryly.

"Oh, so we know what their plans are, do we? For sure or is it just the usual raft of rumour and innuendo? You remember we can't actually pin a direct connection between him and the so-called experts, don't you?"

Ignoring the last comment Michaeli spat back,

"We've got a pretty good idea." He was getting angry now at the younger man's attitude. Not that he believe any of his employer's publicity either but he had more sense than to say it out loud, instead learning to play the game and not care about the truth or otherwise of the reasons. "Vladimir Vladimirovitch is intent on returning Russia to the glory days of the Soviet Empire, when they were the other great power in the world and we all treated them with wary respect or even fear. He wants to rebuild the USSR, hence the recent events of Ukraine and Crimea and why he's starting to stir the pot in the Baltic States. They always did have a thing about their lack of warm water ports which is why Tartus is so valuable and why the Russians will continue to do whatever they need to, to support al-Assad and his cronies. Friend Gavrik is part of the inner circle and our best bet to not only find out what's really going on but to also disrupt their plans. Take him out as their nexus in Syria and we'll shove a spanner in their wheel, good and proper."

The younger man waved dismissively and straightened up.

"Whatever. I guess this means we have to revisit the plan?"

"Yes. Tomorrow."

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _Our plans for a nice night in on Friday didn't happen. We had a call from Erin at 6.30, desperate for me to come home because some emergency has come up and neither she nor Dimitri would be able to stay home. So of course I said I would come home and I did, with Ilya in tow, although I didn't exactly tell Erin that. Rosie was delighted to have her dyedushka staying over, though. And so was I – it was nice to have him at home for once, after having been at his on numerous occasions. There's no comparison, of course, but he didn't appear to care. Saturday was quiet as a result, we did family stuff instead of adult stuff but that was nice, too._

 _They finally came home on Sunday morning, both looking like a train wreck. Rosie was delighted at that, too; nothing out of the ordinary seemed to register with Dee (he's always got on with Ilya) but I thought I saw something cross Erin's face when she saw him out the back, helping Rosie with her homework again. Presumably she didn't have the energy to argue and, strangely, I think they – she – might have drawn a truce because after she finally surfaced from catching up on her sleep this afternoon they were actually joking over tea and biscuits. I'm glad. I hope she's finally realised that he's not her enemy. He's a good man, no matter what might be in his past._

Erin's Diary:

Christ, what a weekend. But it's all over, safely, now. The last thing I needed to see was the Minister sitting at the table out the back with my daughter, heads together over her homework. Although I shouldn't have been surprised, I suppose. He'd followed Rosie in when I got home and after Mum had taken her back out to finish her homework (and let us get some sleep) he asked me how it had all gone. I just said something along the lines of it being "one of those weekends, if you know what I mean" and he just gave me a look and said "Yes. I do." And that's when I realised that he did know. Exactly. And probably with more comprehension than Dee, even, because he's been in my position. For a lot longer. And suddenly I realised Mum was right and I gave up the fight. He's just a man. And seems to be quite a nice one. I just have to learn how to disassociate from that image… Anyway, this afternoon we had our first actual chat we agreed to a truce – well, officially, I agreed to stop calling him Minister if he agreed to stop calling me Miss Watts, which amounts to the same thing. And tonight, over dinner, I realised that he really is rather sweet – like Harry, his public persona is one thing but the real man is a softie at heart. He dotes on Rosie and she absolutely adores him and she's not easily fooled so I give up, I'm too tired to care any more. Welcome to the family, Ilya.

Ilya's Journal:

Our week-end plans came to nought, of course, after the emergency call but in a way what followed was just as nice. I do not have my own grandchild yet, and don't know if I ever will, and have never had a daughter to spoil so Rosie, who is still a sweet, engaging, intelligent child, more than fills the gaps and delights me by calling me _dyedushka_ , which she latched onto on the one occasion I told her the Russian diminutives for grandparents. I believe her mother and I may have finally begun to patch over the events of two years ago as well: neither of us will ever forget but it must be understood as an isolated incident which will never recur. Erin has had a difficult 48 hours and she actually asked me tonight, after Rosie had gone to bed, how I had coped with it all in my day so I told her. I have noticed that she is not always good about leaving work at work and I know it is harder these days, with mobile phones, but it is something which must be done, she needs to learn to delegate more. Whether she will listen is up to her but at least she has started to talk to me more, and more genuinely, which makes both her mother and myself happy.


	13. Chapter 13

13\. London, Thursday 12 June 2014

 _Stamford Brook_ , _19:05_

Jean glanced at her watch yet again and a slight frown appeared between her brows. Ilya should have left the Taj long since, should in fact have been here five minutes ago, and yet she hadn't heard a word from him, let alone seen the car arriving. Normally he sent a text letting her know he was on his way but so far not tonight. The fluttering in her gut started up again and she chewed a fingernail for a moment before pulling her phone out to compulsively check it for about the hundredth time. Still nothing. Pacing up the hallway, the low heels of her strappy sandals tapping on the hardwood flooring, she opened the front door yet again, letting the mild evening air in as she scanned the street. Still no car, either. _What was going on? Maybe he'll pick up if I ring again…_

When the call rang out once more she closed the door and returned down the hallway, the fluttering starting to turn into a knot. The phone and her clutch rattled onto the kitchen bench top as she went to the refrigerator, opened it, stared at the half-empty bottle of white wine in the door, decided she didn't want a drink, shut the door, walked back to the bench and picked the phone up again, turning it in her hands as she stared sightlessly out through the mostly-glass back wall and into the twilight of the yard.

Erin, who was relaxing on the outdoor sofa with a glass from the aforementioned wine bottle and taking the opportunity of no partner (out for a run), no child (Rosie was on a play date, although due back any minute) and no nanny (Mical was off showing her parents the city for the weekend) to just sit down and decompress after a long, frustrating week. The air was silky, most of the normal neighbourhood noise had disappeared as people went indoors to eat and the scent of her step-dad's old roses was filling the evening; the only thing out of place was her mother's endless pacing and, now, the clicking of her rings against the hard case of her mobile as she fiddled with it nervously. She knew why Jean was worried – Ilya should have been here by now to pick her up and take her back to their suite in town – but he wasn't _that_ late.

Taking a sip of the wine Erin considered the Russian who had managed to captivate both her mother and her daughter. She still didn't get it, although she could accept her mother's explanation regarding Rosie and recognised that the man was her mother's intellectual equal, but she could now in all honesty say that not only was she used to him being around but she was also getting to like him. Most of the time. The fact that he was almost always unbendingly correct in his old-fashioned way did annoy her sometimes although at others she appreciated it, particularly the beneficial effect it was having on Rosie's manners. The spectre of the red-headed harpy still lingered but she was much smaller, fainter and distant these days, receding rapidly into the past where she belonged, although Erin occasionally had odd flash-backs that she had to consciously fight against. It would be interesting to see how that fared in August, when they were all meant to be going to Moscow for a bit of a family holiday. Rosie had already been over for a couple of weekends and loved it, and now had got into a summer school at the Bolshoi so she and Dimitri had been invited over at the same time. She suddenly remembered the smile that had lurked in Ilya's shimmering eyes as she and Dimitri had glanced at each other, thinking the same thing; all he had said was words to the effect of _"Do not be concerned, I can assure you there will be no issue regarding your work."_ Jean's footsteps receded towards the front of the house yet again, then the door opened and shut and the footsteps returned to the kitchen.

"Mum, stop pacing like a caged tiger. He'll turn up soon so stop worrying." She couldn't quite keep the exasperation from her voice which she immediately regretted as Jean gazed at her from fearful eyes.

"He's never late, Erin. _Never._ Delayed, maybe, but then he always tells me. Tonight I've heard nothing apart from the text saying he was leaving in ten minutes, and that was over half an hour ago now. This is completely out of character so how can I _not_ worry?"

"Maybe something's come up at work. Or perhaps the President has stuck his oar in again." Draining her glass Erin got to her feet, went to the fridge to retrieve the wine and joined Jean at the bench. "Come on, Mum, relax, have a glass of wine."

The older woman shook her head and walked away, towards the small back deck again.

"Even if that was the case he'd still let me know. I don't know, Erin, there's something very wrong."

"I doubt it, not with the amount of security he's got around him." She sloshed some of the wine into a second glass and pushed it over the island bench top. "Here, have a drink and _stop worrying_. He'll probably knock on the door in a minute and then you'll realise how much you're over-reacting."

 _Oh God, I hope so._ She couldn't help looking at the phone again – nothing. With every passing minute her concern grew exponentially and she made a snap decision: if he wasn't here in another fifteen minutes she would call Vadim, or even Diederick in Moscow. Someone had to know something—

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts and she was down the hallway almost before Erin could react. Wrenching the door open her smile disappeared slowly as she came face to face with the mother of Rosie's friend, dropping the child back.

"Hi, nanna!" The girl gave her a hug and bolted down the hallway to the kitchen and Erin while the woman was saying,

"Oh, hello, Mrs Watts. Just dropping Rosie back. Thanks for letting her come over, they enjoyed themselves."

Jean barely heard her as she made her excuses and went back to her car, all the worry about Ilya slamming back into place. Dimitri appeared as the other woman drove off, puffing and shiny from his run. Glancing at his watch and then at his mother in law in surprise, he said as Jean stood back to let him in,

"Hi, Jean. Ilya still not here?"

"No, not yet," she murmured, closing the door as he headed for the stairs and a shower.

"Probably stuck in traffic. It was pretty thick when I was running along Goldhawk Road a few minutes ago."

"Probably," she echoed, smiling wanly while repressing the urge to either scream or vomit. The man stopped and looked down at her from the landing.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," she replied, trying to sound casual. "Just worrying over nothing. Go and have your shower."

He hesitated but then continued upwards. She was clearly worried and he could guess what the subject was but it she didn't want to talk about it he wouldn't push it.

Another five minutes passed. Rosie was ensconced in front of the television, Erin was finishing off preparations for dinner, Dimitri was out of his shower and getting dressed and Jean was still pacing from one end of the house to the other, compulsively checking her phone, her glass of wine untouched.

"For Heaven's sake, mum," Erin grumbled as Jean sat down, then stood up again almost immediately. "Give it a rest for a few minutes, will you—"

Her work phone suddenly emitted the tone that she really did not want to hear at this hour of the evening. The one that went with a red flash from the Grid. Both women froze; Erin reached for it, suddenly dreading what it might be.

"Harry."

"Erin." Her boss's mellifluous voice revealed nothing; had she been able to see him, the expression on his face wouldn't have told her anything more, which in turn would have told her everything. "Is Ilya there?"

Trying and failing to not look at her mother she answered quietly,

"No. He should have been here at seven but there's no sign of him and we've heard nothing for an hour. Why?"

Jean heard the response and went ashen, slowly sinking into the nearest seat, hand to mouth. _Oh no, oh no, oh no…_

In his office, Harry stared out onto the nearly empty floor of the Grid and squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. He had been making for the lifts and home when the call had come in, strangely enough from Vadim Danilov, Ilya's local Head of Security. Ilya's driver – not Vadim himself on this occasion – had been found by another guest unconscious in the car in the basement carpark of the Taj. Of Ilya there was no sign. They had done a quick search of the surroundings, to no avail, so Vadim had reluctantly followed the instructions his employer had given him some months before and, cautiously, called the Head of Counter-Intelligence for MI5 instead of the FSB local desk. Harry had listened, heart sinking, as the man delivered his concise report; there had been silence for a moment while the older man rapidly assimilated the information then told the Russian to look into it as far as he could at his end while Harry mobilised his own forces. They were to stay in touch.

"Very well. I need you both in here, as soon as possible. Ilya Andreivitch has been reported missing by his security detail and I don't think he's gone by choice."

A serious dose of guilt hit Erin squarely in the gut: her mother had been right all along and she should have listened to her.

"We'll leave straight away—"

"Not quite." Harry's voice cut her off, a tone in it that she couldn't quite identify as he continue, "You need to get your mother and daughter to a safe house, now. Is there anyone else there – Rosie's nanny?"

 _What the?_ Heart racing she responded carefully,

"No, not for the next couple of days."

Equally cautious at the other end, her boss explained a little.

"Good. I believe I know who might be behind this. If I'm correct it will be safer to have the family out of sight until it's sorted. Use echo-17-bravo. To keep this among ourselves for the moment I've asked Hope to go over and meet you all there. She will stay as long as Jean needs the company."

After signing off, Erin steeled herself to lift her eyes and meet her mother's gaze which was one of pure, unadulterated terror. Before she could speak Dimitri bounded down the stairs and into the kitchen, still tucking his shirt in.

"Did you get that? What's happening?"

Not breaking eye contact with Jean, Erin said slowly,

"It's Ilya. He's been reported missing. Possibly snatched by persons unknown. We have to go in. Mum, I need you to pack an overnight bag for a couple of nights away while I do one for Rosie. We need to get you away from here for a bit."

Jean hardly heard anything she said after the word 'missing'. There had always been an unformed dread in her mind that something would happen to him and now it had. She had no idea what to do next so just sat, staring through Erin, as her daughter continued to talk. The younger woman stopped, peered closely at her, and approached, resting a hand on her forearm.

"Mum, are you okay?"

Finally finding a semblance of voice she murmured in a tone of withering quietude,

"No. How can I be? What happens now?"

Erin patiently went through it again, this time drawing her mother upstairs with her to pack in the process. Rosie, who had appeared, wide eyed and silent, from the front room when she had heard Ilya's name mentioned, followed them up with Dimitri making up the tail end of the group and diverting the girl into her room to help her pack. They were out the front door in five minutes, Jean still looking like a sleep-walker and Rosie compulsively twisting her favourite bangle around her wrist, not entirely sure of what was happening but picking up on the raging tension in the adults.

The safe house was on the way back to the city, a small, nondescript place on the end of a row in a slightly down-at-heel street out the back of Hammersmith, within a stone's throw of both the railway and the Flyover. At least the lights were on and, as they reached the front door, it opened to reveal Harry's tall Australian wife exuding her irresistible, Zen-like calm. Both women were immensely relieved to see her and Erin gladly handed her still stunned mother and unnaturally quiet daughter over to her care before hot-footing it into the city.

It was past eight by the time Erin and Dimitri arrived on the Grid. Once there, Harry called them straight into the nearest meeting room where Waleed and Calum were waiting. Erin caught herself looking around for Will but was, of course, disappointed. It had only been a few weeks since Harry had decommissioned the young man after yet another off-piste excursion which had not only seriously endangered himself but had been more than usually illegal. _It had taken Harry throwing around the equivalent of twice his weight to convince the constabulary to drop the charges they had wanted to lay but the upshot of it was sending the young man on his way, for the protection of both MI5 and Will himself. Will had argued furiously but Harry had been steadfast, hating himself in the process but knowing it was the best thing all around, at least at this stage. Perhaps when Will had grown up and settled down a bit something might be done but for the moment he was sailing far too close to the wind for his own good. The fact that Will's behaviour had continued to be far too much like his own at the same age had not been lost on the older man, even before Will had thrown the accusation in his face_ … They would feel his absence, Erin thought as she took her seat, he had always been good at putting together what appeared to odd, unconnected facts.

"Alright, everybody, this is what we know. Minister Gavrik sent a text message to his partner at 6.25pm saying he would be leaving to pick her up in ten minutes. That's the last that has been heard from him. At approximately 7.10pm his driver was found knocked unconscious in the basement parking area. He was also bound and gagged. He was in the vehicle but there was no sign of the Minister. His head of security informed me at 7.30pm. While you've been getting here Calum and Waleed have been doing some searching."

The techie pressed a button on the remote and the smart screen at the head of the table flicked into life, showing security camera footage of the car park.

"This vehicle—" an unremarkable Renault van appeared on the screen as he spoke "—arrived at 6.20pm. It parked opposite the two Kaspgaz vehicles but no-one got out. Scroll forwards to 6.32 and you can see the driver arrive. He doesn't even make it to the vehicle before this pair—" the screen zoomed in on the two figures, unrecognisable in balaclavas, who suddenly appeared from the van "—jumped him, bundled him out of the way and then took up a position near the lift but out of view of anyone coming out of the elevator. 6.36 the Minister arrives and you can see what happens."

They all watched silently as the lift doors opened and Ilya walked out, coming to an abrupt stop and lifting his head to look around sharply, clearly aware that something wasn't right. The two shadows stepped forward; one pressed a gun into the Russian's side, the other placed his weapon against the man's temple. Few words were said; the trio moved towards the van, Ilya was bundled into the back without argument, the door locked after him and within thirty seconds the van was gone.

"The licence plates on the van are false, as was the pass that they used to get in and out of the car park," Waleed commented. "We tracked the van as far as we could, which wasn't much because they disappeared into the rabbit warren of streets around Southwark and vanished. It was very professionally done, all of it."

That much had been blindingly obvious to everyone but was also a salient point. Dimitri frowned and said,

"Did they know Ilya's movements or was it an unholy coincidence? If so, how did they know? He only uses encrypted comms. If they followed him tonight they would have been waiting somewhere for a while because what time did he get back here from work?"

Calum consulted his notes.

"5.37." Everyone looked at him, nonplussed by the accuracy. "According to the door code records I quietly lifted from the hotel's security system. Confirmed by Vadim Danilov when I spoke to him ten minutes ago."

Everyone went quiet but Erin was fixing Harry with an icy stare.

"Harry. You said on the phone that you thought you might know who is behind this and it was serious enough to hide my mother and daughter in a safe house. Would you care to let us in on the secret?"

"Some months ago the Minister became aware that he was being followed. We have spoken about it and he is of the opinion that the source of the problem is the Cousins. However, we had no concrete proof."

"'Had'?" Calum honed in on the salient word and Harry nodded, once, in acknowledgment.

"Three weeks ago I met, unofficially, with the Head of London Station of the CIA, as we have been doing at irregular intervals for the past three years. During the latest one she brought up the subject of Ilya and said that the Special Activities Division were taking an active interest in him."

Erin sucked her breath in while Dimitri and Calum exchanged glances; none of them had forgotten the last time they had tangled with that lot. Harry had ended up enjoying the pleasure of their 'hospitality' for too many hours before they had sprung him; not long afterwards, following on from the afternoon that had destroyed their lives, they had spent a week watching their backs as a vengeful CIA set out to crucify every member of MI5 that they judged responsible for the death of one of their own. It had taken Tallulah, discharging herself from hospital after inadvertently colliding with the van that had been carrying Deputy Director James Coaver to his death while she and MI-5 were pursuing it, to strong-arm her own people into seeing the truth. Now, here they were again, popping up like a bad penny to wreak havoc in their lives, uninvited…

" _Why_?" There was a harsh edge to her voice and Harry could almost see the thoughts chasing each other around her brain, most notable of which would be a realisation of why he had insisted that Jean and Rosie go somewhere safe.

"That I can't tell you but my suspicion is that it has to do with his business involvement in Syria. There's nothing to say that the supposition is true but it's a logical assumption that they may have mistaken private business for official government involvement, given Ilya was obligated by Putin to introduce the Russian members of the intergovernmental commission to their Syrian government counterparts."

"That's what the question for D'wane about the girl at that reception was about." Calum, suddenly understanding, glanced at Harry who nodded again. "And, come to think of it, D'wane has had a couple of odd questions over the past few months that might fit that idea…"

There was silence around the table for a few moments until Dimitri asked quietly,

"Do the FSB know about this yet? And what happens when Moscow finds out?"

Harry's eyes both brightened and hardened.

"Indeed. I don't believe the FSB know yet – Ilya's people are doing their own work on this and his orders to them in the event of something like this happening here was to contact us. As for when the President becomes aware… I don't imagine it will be pretty. We will find out soon enough. Calum, can you contact D'wane? Under the radar at this stage. Find out if he will admit anything. Waleed, take this pair and start trawling every bit of CCTV you can find, working backwards from when the van arrived at the Taj. They may not have been so careful on the way over." As he stood up he added, "I'm going to ring my friend in Grosvenor Square."

 _Safe house, Hammersmith. 21:00._

Rosie was finally in bed and asleep, the excitement of having a day off school tomorrow having not been enough to dispel the anxiety of being ripped out of her surroundings and now sleeping in a new house. Jean had passed it off as being a surprise practice run for their upcoming trip to Moscow, which the child seemed to accept although it did little for her disquiet; returning downstairs, she found Hope set up in the front room, with red wine, glasses, cheese, nuts and chocolate laid out and the TV muttering quietly in the background. She was channel surfing when Jean joined her, checking – unsuccessfully thus far – for any evidence of the story having got out into the public domain yet. Silently handing over a half-filled glass she waited companionably until the other woman took a long draught of the alcohol and gazed at her with huge eyes. Smiling tremulously, Jean asked,

"What happens now?"

Hope knew that expression far too well. Desperate to hold it together yet about to collapse into a screaming heap of fear and terror. It felt like no time at all since she had been there herself.

"Now," she picked up her own glass, "we drink and talk – or not – and wait. The best people in the country are on the job and there is nothing else we can do."

The other woman nodded and absently swirled the wine in her glass.

"And what about him?" Her voice was little more than a whisper. "What's happening to Ilya?"

Hope's heart clenched at the incipient grief in Jean's voice. God, did she know exactly where the woman's mind was at the moment: chasing itself in circles, imagining the worst possible events and outcome, trying to not panic while metaphorically chewing her fingernails down to her elbows and absolutely frantic for reassurance.

"We don't know what's happening to Ilya. It's impossible to guess so try not to, although I know that's also impossible."

The grey-blue eyes were stormy yet pleading as Jean turned her gaze to her again.

"Do you? Do you really know how impossible it is, when the man you love has vanished without trace…" Her voice trailed off and the edge of anger dissolved into huge tears. Hope put her glass down and said,

"Oh come here," pulling Jean into a hug. When the sobs had subsided a little she finally responded to the question. "Yes, I do know. I know exactly what you're going through. Harry's not my first husband."

Grabbing on to something, anything, to distract her whirling mind, if only for a second, Jean lifted her tear-stained eyes and searched the other woman's face, registering for the first time the deep well of an ancient grief in their sea-green depths.

"What happened?"

"He was in the army." She was going to have to tread very carefully with this. Given the current circumstances, it wouldn't help Jean to hear that Wynne had been tortured to death… "He went out on operations, the enemy got him and he didn't come back. It took a long time to find out and every second of it was like being burned in hell. So yes, I know right where you are now." Dread crept into the other woman's expression; to stop its progress Hope held her by the shoulders and said firmly, "If this was a hit they would have found him by now, Jean. So clearly it isn't, which is in his favour." She dropped her hands and picked up their glasses again. Handing Jean's over, she continued, "Ilya is a hard, hard man, Jean. I bet he doesn't present to you that way but believe me, he was one of about two people Harry was ever genuinely wary of and whom he respected as a result. He can look after himself." _So could Wynne, but that was another story._

"That was thirty years ago, Hope. None of us are chickens any more."

The other woman shrugged.

"Maybe not but he's as fit as I am, if not fitter, and he knows how to fight dirty. Plus he's very, very bright. Never forget that." _And he's got MI5, the Kaspgaz security organisation and, probably, the FSB on his side. None of which will help him wherever he is right now._ She thought the other woman was looking a little less fraught so topped up their glasses and pulled the cheeseboard over. "Here you go, Dr Watts. More wine, some cheese and then you can tell me what you've been up to. Haven't you been finishing up a research project?"

Another normality to cling to, so Jean swallowed her terror and replied, albeit wanly,

"I have, Dr Johnson…"

 _21:50 The Grid_

The small crew had reconvened in the meeting room for a quick summation of their findings.

"Right. Calum, did you contact D'wane?"

"Yes." The techie looked drawn as he glanced around the table. "He wasn't willing to say much but he confirmed that a couple of their covert ops guys have been taking an unhealthy interest in the Minister for the past eight months. He didn't – or wouldn't – say why but he sounded worried."

"So he knows more than he's admitting. Waleed, did your group come up with anything?"

The young man shook his head, looking weary.

"Not much. I tried tracking the vehicle backwards, as you suggested but lost them again fairly quickly. Dimitri and Erin went looking forwards from where we lost them and checking every possible route. They've spotted the van three more times so far: it looks like it's moving east but at the moment we've lost it again. Bear in mind it's a big job and we haven't had much time to cover much of a geographic area yet."

"It's something, though, so well done, all of you. I briefed Tallulah: she confirmed what D'wane told you, Calum, and added that he and Brontee Sorenson have been quietly looking into the suspects for most of the year." He checked his watch. "She is probably talking to them now and they will all be over tomorrow morning at 07:00. Erin?"

The woman glanced up from the tabletop, tearing herself away from her worries. There was an expression on her face that was somewhere between haunted and hunted and her mind was clearly miles away.

"Hmm? Sorry, Harry, I was elsewhere for a minute."

He gazed at her with compassion.

"Anywhere you want to share with us?"

She glanced at Dimitri who just shrugged, unsure of what was eating her, then at the others. She had known them all for years now and trusted them…

"Battling a serious guilt-trip. Mum knew something was wrong very early but I dismissed it. If I hadn't maybe we could have moved earlier."

"That I doubt. Whatever had happened occurred before she would have had any misgivings so it was already too late. Now, Waleed and Calum, get your night shift on to tracking that van and then go home, we'll need you fresh in the morning. Erin and Dimitri, there's nothing more we can do tonight so you should go home to see how your mother is coping. I will be staying back for a little longer to check in with Vadim Danilov and ensure the rest of night-shift is aware of what they need to do."

Everyone broke up and went their own ways but Harry stayed behind in the meeting room for a few minutes. He knew they wouldn't be able to relax but, until they knew where Ilya was, there really wasn't much they could do and he needed them fit to work in the morning. That this has happened was something of a surprise, if only because he hadn't thought the Cousins could be so blindingly stupid as to kidnap an international business leader and senior Politburo member. Apparently, however, they were. What really worried him was what they might do now: just releasing him would be their best bet but he doubted that would happen. Instead, he feared that they would decide it would be better to make the Russian disappear completely, which raised the spectre of extraordinary rendition to one of their little hell-holes scattered around the world. Having been on the receiving end of the start of a similar process, Harry could only cross his fingers and hope that they would see sense before they set off an international incident of a scale even they couldn't guess at. Vladimir Vladimirovitch Putin would not take the Americans snatching his former mentor and long-time friend lying down…

Scrubbing at his face with his hands, he decided to ring Hope before contacting Vadim Danilov. Her voice alone always calmed him, let alone her always-sensible counsel.

 _22:05 Grosvenor Square_

D'wane and Brontee sat silently as Tallulah outlined the latest events. Both paled and they glanced at each other, wordless but understanding what each other thought. _Surely even that pair wouldn't be so stupid_? Their senior gazed at them, reading them both like a book.

"I need you to go and collect together everything you have on the subject. While you are doing so, check the footage that Sir Harry has sent across and see if you recognise the van, although I suspect it will be nothing to do with us and therefore untrackable. However, we have a meeting in the morning at Thames House and it would be nice to take _something_ new with us. Now go, I have a phone call to Langley to make."

Once they were out in the corridor D'wane looked at Brontee with wide eyes.

"What the _hell_ have those two sleazy ass-holes done? This cannot be real, can it?"

The woman, trotting to keep up with her companion's long stride, shook her head and replied dolefully,

"I'm afraid it can. Very afraid. Why else would Calum have just rung you and asked inscrutable questions? If this _is_ true, where does it end? And what if it gets out into the public domain?"

"When, Bron. I think it's when, rather than if, it gets leaked. We'll be crucified, both personally and as an organisation, on a global scale and God only knows what Putin will do. At least I know now exactly what Calum was fishing for but I'm scared, Bron. More scared than I've ever been, I think."

She nodded as they arrived back in their work area, mostly deserted at this hour of the night.

"So am I but we've got to find and stop them, D'wane. Before they do anything to the Minister and before they set off a chain reaction that could escalate to who knows were." She stopped at her work area. "I've got most of my stuff together anyway so when you've got yours I think we should go through some of it again and see if we can work out where they might be."

D'wane agreed and disappeared into his inner sanctum, returning fifteen minutes later. By the time they had their heads buried in their data again Tallulah was sitting in her office looking in disbelief at the conference phone as the person at the other end, at head office in Langley, finished talking. She had leaned on an old friend – the current Director of the CIA – to let her talk to the Head of the Special Activities Division directly, initially with no success until she mentioned what had happened and her suspicions. She still didn't get to speak to the person concerned but her friend did and it must have been an utter ball-tearing because he was ringing her back in under ten minutes to let her know the truth. Now, he was finishing up.

"I'm sorry, Tallulah. These people are a law unto themselves but it's going to stop, as of now. This is one step too damned far."

"It's a little late for today, Jack. Was there any mention of locations they might be using?"

A disembodied sigh filled the room.

"No. Plausible deniability and all that; they're responsible for their own black ops sites."

"Jesus Christ." She rested her head in her hands. "Then it will be up to us and Five… If that pair have any sense they'll return the man tonight, undamaged, and hope Moscow never finds out about it but I don't like our chances. Just what were they thinking, giving them _carte-blanche_ to run interference on Russia's activities in Syria? I cannot _believe_ it's resulted in the kidnap of an international politician! Who isn't anything to do with Putin's real nefarious activities with al Assad, as far as any of the rest of us are aware—"

"I know, I know, Tallulah." Her compatriot was trying to soothe her fury. "I'll keep digging at this end and one thing I can promise you: as of now, there will be no permission granted for departing flights from any of our facilities over there. Not until the Russian is returned."

 _Well, that was something…_

"Make sure you do, Jack." Sitting up and stretching she added, "Okay, I have to go. I have a meeting with Five in about nine hours so keep me posted."

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _Ilya has vanished. They think he's been kidnapped. I knew something was wrong when he didn't arrive as usual, or ring, or answer his phone. Erin kept telling me not to panic until she got a red flash about it. Now Rosie and I are in a safe house, for our own protection, and I've never felt so sick in my life. He's vanished. And I don't think I can stand it._

Erin's Diary:

I'm going to feel guilty forever after tonight. Mum was in a flat spin because Ilya was running late to pick her up and I kept telling her not to panic. In fact I was getting a little impatient with it and about to snap when I got a red flash. He had been reported missing by his staff, between leaving his suite and reaching the carpark where his chauffeur had been attacked. We've whisked mum and Rosie off to a safe house, just in case, and now we have to find him. ASAP, before mum dies of a broken heart.

1

God help whoever it is when I find them.

Ilya's Journal:


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: apologies for the unexpected hiatus in posting, RL got in the way. I've had to split this chapter in two because it was far too long in its original form. Thank you to those who are continuing to read and particularly to my reviewers!**

14\. Friday 13 June 2014

 _CIA black ops interrogation facility. 03:50._

He was cold, but not unbearably so, for which he could probably thank the weather. They had, of course, stripped him of everything except his trousers early on – it was all part of the softening up process but at least they had allowed him to retain some of his dignity, at this stage anyway – before shackling him hand and foot. Then the squirting with ice water had begun just after midnight, accounting for some of the coldness now, as what was left of his clothing was still soaked. There had been comparatively little physical violence so far, either, but no doubt they were keeping that for the morning. They _had_ kept him shackled for several hours, tethered to a bolt in the ceiling in such a way that he couldn't quite sit, or reach any wall to lean against, and so became increasingly uncomfortable. He'd thought they were going to leave him like that all night, along with the bright lights and the loud, discordant music repeating on a short loop, when they had left at one but the younger of the pair had returned half an hour ago, let him off the tether and turned off both the music and the lights before departing again without a word or a sideways glance, eyes steadfastly on the floor. Now, here he was, curled up in a corner, having managed to manoeuvre his shirt and jacket – inexplicably left in the room – over himself after a fashion, considering what the hell it was all about.

It had all been reasonably civilised to start with. The pair of Americans had asked questions, which he had answered accurately and concisely because there was nothing particularly secret about any of it but it hadn't been enough for the older of the two, who had started pressing harder and harder, going in a direction that was clear to Ilya but also something that he couldn't answer because, despite what his captors thought, he was not involved in any of the political negotiations between his country and Syria. That was when the unpleasantness had started, escalating suddenly, without warning. It was nothing he couldn't handle after his experiences in Afghanistan in the late 1970s, although it seemed to hurt more than he was expecting and the bruises were already appearing.

The CIA agents were an interesting pair. The older one was a thug, of the sort that Ilya had met, and occasionally hired, time and time again over his career. Bright enough but not clever, someone who believed that violence and intimidation would get you everywhere, he had been given an objective and wasn't likely to give up until he got what wanted, whether it was the truth or not. The younger one was trying to follow his elder's lead but was obviously extremely uncomfortable with it, particularly when the threats started to become real. In fact, Ilya was willing to bet that the younger man actually understood that they had got it horribly wrong and was deeply worried about where it was all going to end up. Coming to that conclusion early, he had worked on it, subtly encouraging the thought and insinuating that he would be able to mitigate any consequences. It would seem it had worked because presumably that was why the younger one had returned. Either that or they were playing good cop/bad cop but he doubted it: the older man didn't have enough imagination for that.

Wriggling into a position that eased the pain in the old shrapnel wound in his upper arm he let his thoughts drift to a subject that had been occupying him more and more of late. Vladimir Putin's Russia and how he was coming to like it less and less. What he had told Harry years before about having no dreams for his country was and had remained true but all the same he had hoped for more than the direction it was now heading in. Once, not so long ago, he had been sure of his analysis of his former underling's motivation and direction but of late he wasn't so certain. Everything he was seeing and hearing was making it more obvious that corruption was taking over and the government was descending into nothing more than a kleptocracy with a leader that was getting quietly desperate as he was faced with the prospect of the country breaking up and personally losing the vast amount of power that he had spent so many years building up. The current behaviour in Crimea and Ukraine was another symptom: his American captors clearly thought it was just the start of an old, Soviet-style expansion into surrounding territories to expand Russia's land area but Ilya was certain that was wrong – it wasn't an offensive, expansionist move but instead defensive, the construction of a buffer to desperately keep a country together and maintain an external image that belied the fact that it actually didn't have the ability or the money to expand the empire for real. It was both disappointing and disheartening, no matter which way you looked at it and if it hadn't been for Sasha he would have quietly decamped elsewhere long since; now here he was, captive and being slowly tortured, not knowing what was going to happen next, because of a political system in a country that he cared nothing about—

A sharp pain in his hip brought him back to the dungeon and he allowed a very quiet groan to escape. He wasn't as young as he used to be, that much couldn't be ignored, so he had better try to get what rest he could in this unexpected lull. Tomorrow – today – was probably not going to be fun and he needed to be able to hold himself together for long enough for Harry's cavalry to arrive. It was going to be bad enough for Jean as it was – he didn't want their reunion to be any worse for her than it had to be…

 _The Grid. 08:25._

The Cousins had arrived early and had now been ensconced in the meeting room with Harry and the rest of the crew for almost two hours. Everyone looked, and was, exhausted, not least because despite everyone's best efforts there had been no major breakthrough over night. Harry had spoken to Vadim Danilov before the meeting but the Russian had nothing to report beyond saying that he was not going to be able to fob the FSB off for much longer; the fact that he was prevaricating had already tipped them off that something was happening. Of course, once they knew, Moscow would know…

Tallulah and Harry had glanced at each other, both more than able to imagine a furious Vladimir Putin on the phone to David Cameron and Barack Obama; they also simultaneously realised that they were going to have to brief their respective leaders before that happened, probably in the next hour. That was going to be no-one's idea of fun.

"Very well. Let's recap what we've got. Waleed, give us the summary."

"CIA Special Activities Division agents Ted Michaeli and Don Galloway were tasked by Langley to extract the Russian Minister for International Development for questioning on and to damage or break Russia's involvement with the al-Assad government in Syria. Neither Michaeli nor Galloway have been seen since mid-afternoon yesterday, when security records show they both departed Grosvenor Square together by foot at 15:40 hours. They picked up the van at a rental office near Hyde Park at 16:30 and two hours later used force to persuade the Minister to leave his hotel car park with them. CCTV shows the vehicle travelling east and then south but it is lost in the East Dulwich area. We presume that they were tipped off about the Minister's plans for the evening by a mole in his office."

He stopped for a sip of water and glanced around at his audience. Harry was focussed on the smart screen on the end wall, currently glowing with a map showing sightings and movement tracks of the vehicle. Dimitri was doing the same; Erin was staring at her fingernails, quietly fretting over the effect all of this was having on her mother and daughter and trying to dampen down the fire of fury at the idiots responsible which was growing in her belly. The Americans were looking both tired and downcast at the role their compatriots were playing in this; the blonde woman, about five months along if Waleed was any judge of such things after three babies of his own, was looking particularly drawn but her cornflower blue eyes were burning with a similar red-hot ire as Erin's, aimed the same direction as the other woman's if for different reasons. The huge African-American, dwarfing everyone else in the room, was almost wringing his hands in distress at not having come up with much apart from what Waleed was about to summarise.

"The CIA have been covertly watching Agents Michaeli and Galloway and their co-workers and have identified two areas that may be possible destinations for the van. The first is near RAF Lakenheath; the second is somewhere in east London, out towards London Airport. The direction of the van suggested that the London Airport area is more likely than Lakenheath, at least until it turned south."

"That could be a feint," Dimitri said, still studying the map. "From there they could go any direction. Did either of your pair or their minions ever go south, Brontee?"

She shook her head, an errant curl escaping to bounce next to her ear.

"No, not that I recall although I can check the results again."

"So our best bet is still the Airport area," Calum mused, glancing over the table at his friend. "D'wane, have you two looked into the buildings in the area and done any sniffing around the companies there yet?"

"We started to, a couple of months back, but haven't had time to review any of it yet. We'll get back on to it now."

"Calum, you and Waleed can help," Harry broke in. "Tallulah, is there any way we can track the rogue agents?"

The older woman shook her head.

"I'm afraid not, Harry. They may be idiots but they're not stupid. Their phones are encrypted, as you would expect, and in any case they've turned them off. If they've got phones with them, they're burners." Looking at her English counterparts she continued, "One thing I can assure you: we will find them and in the meantime there will be no chance of them removing the Minister from this country to any of our facilities elsewhere. There has been a lock-down in place preventing any and all personnel from travelling away from their offices or homes until this is over since our phone call last night."

"That's one thing, at least. Thank you, Tallulah. Alright everyone, get back to it. I have a meeting with the Home Secretary now and, after that, possibly with the PM."

 _Heathrow Airport/Home Office. 09:00._

Malcolm's flight from Buenos Aires had been delayed by over an hour in taking off and had then battled strong head-winds most of the way across the north Atlantic. Now they had touched down two and a half hours later than they should have and were taxiing slowly towards the terminal. Just as well he had told Angharad to not bother fighting the traffic and incurring the parking fees to come and pick him up. After what felt like forever they pulled into the gate and were finally allowed to turn their phones on. As soon as he did, his went absolutely berserk.

"What on Earth…"

Being in First Class had its advantages apart from the ability to actually get flat and sleep. Eyes glued to the screen of the phone he was still first out the door, his gut clenching into a fist and his heart rate sky-rocketing as his long legs swept him up the air bridge and along to the baggage carousel. Horror stricken, he scrolled quickly through the messages, then checked his watch and, for one of the very few times in his life, swore vehemently under his breath. Flicking to his contacts he found the one he wanted and stabbed the button.

Harry had elected to be driven to see William Towers and on the way over had fretted over what to do next. They had so little information, despite apparently having a lot: the two Americans were ghosts, visible but not corporeal, or not at the moment, and leaving few traces of their movements. By now, Ilya had been missing for over fourteen hours and God knew what was happening to him. He and Hope had been discussing exactly that at three o'clock this morning, curled up in bed when he couldn't sleep and she wasn't much better. They both actually knew the sort of things that the CIA were likely to do in the situation; Harry had been fretting about the physical effects because he knew that Ilya was psychologically as tough as they came but the flip side was that the man was older than he was. Not by much but enough and if the Cousins decided to get brutal… Hope quietly had similar concerns but had also pointed out to him exactly what she had said to Jean: that their Russian friend was both bodily and mentally as hard as nails, age notwithstanding. He'd been there and done most of it, one way or the other, so she doubted anything the CIA could do would come as a surprise.

Harry was still worrying away at the problem now as he walked down the corridor towards the Home Secretary's office but, just before he got there, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Malcolm. He was tempted to ignore it for a moment until something sparked in the back of his brain, a comment Ilya had made ages ago about doing business with _Caledfwich_ —

"Malcolm."

"Harry. Are you missing a Russian?"

The blond man stopped in his tracks just outside the Home Secretary's offices. Towers could wait for a few minutes.

"Yes. What do you know? _How_ do you know?"

The other man's precise voice came back over the sound of the horn warning that a baggage carousel was about to start. _That's right, Malcolm had been to Argentina on business for the past week._

"We've been trialling a new tracking device for a few months. I've just stepped off the plane to find that its emergency beacon went off at 6:37 last night. It continued pinging for some time after that. I'm sorry, Harry, I was in the air by then. I'll run the analyses on the way to the office and keep you up to date. Do you want me to come in?"

"Yes. As soon as you can, please. I'm about to go in to inform the Home Secretary but call me whenever you need."

"Will do."

At the airport, Malcolm's bag had appeared from the maw of airside so he picked it up and bolted for the taxi rank, pulling out his laptop as soon as he was seated. Every second was vital by this stage.

Fifteen minutes later William Towers was staring across the vast expanse of his desk at Harry, for once lost for words. When he did finally speak, it wasn't polite.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Harry, what has got into the Americans? Presumably they haven't thought about the implications of what they've done, even if we do find him and get him back in one piece. Or maybe they just don't give a shit." He leaned back in his seat, blue eyes troubled. "What do we do, Harry? The man still scares the death out of me sometimes but I've got to like him, and Jean. How is she?"

"About as well as you would expect. She has been put into a safe house, along with Erin's daughter, for protection until this is over."

"Is that really necessary?"

Harry shrugged.

"Possibly not but we have evidence that Jean and/or Rosie are considered a secondary target for leverage on Ilya. We thought it wiser to be cautious."

Towers swore under his breath again.

"The CIA really are a bunch of bastards, aren't they? I'm going to have to inform the PM. Who else knows about this?"

"Us, the CIA and the Kaspgaz security team. I'm not sure for how much longer the news will be able to be kept from the FSB and Moscow. Or the Press."

They both rose from their seats as the Home Secretary muttered,

"Keep those vultures out of it for as long as you can, and I'm not talking about Moscow." They shook hands. "Keep me informed."

 _En-route and at The Grid. 09:38._

Half way back to Millbank Harry's phone rang but it wasn't Malcolm.

"Vadim. Any news?"

"Not regarding the Minister, Sir Harry," the lightly-accented voice echoed slightly on the line. "However, the FSB have worked out what has happened. I was confronted by them half an hour ago and was put in a position where I could not prevaricate. I am sorry but Moscow will know by now."

Harry sighed and scrubbed at his face for a moment.

"Okay, thanks, Vadim. I presume that means your President will be making some phone calls soon."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. I will inform the appropriate people. Thank you again."

He had been rather hoping that they would take their time in responding but apparently not: he hadn't intended such a rapid response with the subsequent joy of the local Desk of the FSB running amok all over town trying to jack-boot their way over the top of everything but anyway… That's exactly why Ilya had chosen to order Vadim Danilov to contact Section D before anyone else. He gave a mental shrug: at least now they were, as intended, forewarned.

Ten minutes later he was back in the office, hoping for some positive news from the team but there was none to be had. D'wane, Calum, Brontee and Waleed were closeted in one of the meeting rooms, computers battling for space on the table with coffee cups, water bottles, notepads, pens and the remains of a box of pastries. On the smart screens was a layered succession of maps, CCTV feeds from the previous evening, building plans and Google Steetview. They were still trying to track the van in between methodically combing the greater surrounds of the London Airport area but neither search had yielded anything. Erin and Dimitri, for want of anything else to do, were trying to focus on their other tasks, also without any success. This waiting game was the part they hated the most in these jobs but on this particular case it was about a thousand times worse because it was personal.

After catching up on the non-progression and dropping the news about Moscow on his hybrid crew Harry was about to go to the kitchen and make more drinks for everyone when his phone rang again. This time it was Malcolm.

"Harry. I have something for you. I'll be downstairs in two minutes, if you can send someone down to bring me through."

"I'll come myself." Slipping his phone back into his pocket he announced to the room at large, "We might have something," and disappeared before anyone could say anything but in under five minutes he was back, accompanied by a taller, slender, sandy-haired man in an immaculate grey suit, carrying a Louis Vuitton briefcase. After performing the introductions he added,

"Malcolm, how long do you need?"

"A minute." Even as his precise voice softly filled the room he was extracting a slim, extremely high-end laptop from the briefcase, setting it up and, with what seemed to be just a few keystrokes, taking over the main smart screen at the end of the room. Before he could say any more Calum, who had been staring at the newcomer in fascination, blurted out,

"Are you _the_ Malcolm Wynne-Jones?"

The man in question looked at him, slightly mystified.

"Well, I don't know about 'the' but that is my name."

"There are algorithms and programs of yours in our systems that are so complex yet so beautiful and that work so exquisitely that I doubt they will be surpassed for a long time to come." Standing, he extended his hand across the table. "I'm honoured to meet you, sir."

They shook but before the conversation could continue Harry cut in.

"You can talk afterwards, Calum. Malcolm, what have you got?"

A map of London popped up on the screen.

"Minister Gavrik and I have been working on an advanced tracking device for some time: he was getting tired of needing a heavy security presence physically around him almost everywhere he goes. I've developed a chip that I mounted in his watch back in January and we have been testing and refining it ever since. It reports back to my server but also send alerts to my phone. When I arrived back in London this morning my phone almost imploded after I turned it on."

He pressed a button and a red dot appeared, centred on the Taj Suites.

"The Minister had activated the emergency function on the watch at 18:37 last night although it didn't register until 18:39 when the vehicle he was in cleared the underground car park. The tracker pinged the satellite every ten seconds—" smaller red dots popped up on the screen as he spoke, moving along Regency Street and across Vauxhall Bridge, as the audience already knew, moving south and then east through Elephant and Castle and Bermondsey before it disappeared "—vanishing for a few minutes while it was traversing the Rotherhithe tunnel. The signal is not as strong as it could be because of the miniaturisation required and the van appears to be acting as a weak Faraday cage so it fades in and out without warning – something I am still working on."

He tapped on the keyboard again as the dots continued to move, erratic and sometimes disappearing entirely for a minute at a time, but steadily eastwards. Another window opened in the upper corner of the screen.

"I'm still acquiring CCTV footage to confirm the vehicle movements but they do tally." The intermittent, grainy footage looped along in fits and starts, glimpses or more of the van as it threaded its way sedately through the traffic. Everyone sat and watched in silence as the dots continued eastwards, followed by the footage. That petered out quickly but the dots continued, until they, too, stopped about one and a hlf kilometres from London Airport.

"This is the location of the last reading." Google Earth's Street View suddenly appeared in a third window and he slowly panned it through 360 degrees, showing variably new construction, older and derelict buildings, empty former industrial land and a viaduct from the Docklands Light Rail in the Victoria Docks area. "He is somewhere around here. Probably underground."

A murmur rustled around the room and Dimitri cleared his throat.

"You are sure it hasn't just run out of power?"

"Yes. We chose to sacrifice a little in signal strength in favour of longevity. The battery in the tracker lasts for five hours. I have run the statistics on the received pings and the average is 16 seconds. At the average speed of the van that means the Minister is probably somewhere between 300m and 400m from this point."

Another sibilant rustle greeted his words as Harry asked sharply,

"Where?"

"That I can't tell you yet but most likely one of the industrial or derelict building sites. If we can find video footage it will help."

"Thank you, Malcolm. We may yet have a chance to stop this turning into an international incident. Keep looking. Calum and D'wane will help. Brontee, can you and Waleed go over everything you can find out about the buildings in a 500 metre radius from the final ping location." As everyone got up to go Erin asked quietly,

"Harry, can I tell Mum?"

He rested his hand on her shoulder briefly.

"No, not yet. Best not get anyone's hopes up."

Her blood ran cold at that and she just stared at her boss as he left the room. Clearly he wasn't expecting anything good to come of whatever they might find today.

"It'll be okay, Erin. We're close now."

Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment she murmured,

"God, I hope so. I don't want to think about what it will do to Mum and Rosie if it's not. You will have to stop me killing these bastards when we get them."

He suddenly smiled at her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into him for a second.

"I probably won't! Speaking of which, we might as well go and get some kit out. I think we might need it soon."

 _Safe house, Hammersmith. 10:03._

Hope set the teapot on the kitchen table along with the cake she had bought for morning tea and made her way to the front room where Jean and Rosie were sitting in front of the television. Jean, for one, wasn't watching it, instead staring out the window and clearly miles away.

"Morning tea's up, ladies," she announced cheerfully. Rosie bounced up out of her seat with an excited,

"Oh, _cool_!" while her grandmother reacted more slowly, dragging her thoughts back to the present from the dark places they had been hiding since seven last night. The girl clattered ahead and was examining the cake with interest when the women followed her into the room.

"Rosie, what would you like to drink? There's juice, milk or cold water."

The child looked at Hope with solemn blue eyes.

"May I have a cup of tea, please?"

"Oh, I don't know – may she have some tea, Jean?"

Jean smiled at her grand daughter a little indulgently.

"Yes. I know it's unfashionable at the moment but I see no harm in her having some tea or coffee if it's not too strong. I'll make it for her – it's more milk than tea."

As Hope was cutting up the cake she continued talking to the girl.

"I've got something for you to watch, if you haven't already seen it."

"What's that?" Rosie was currently more interested in the cake than anything else but her ears pricked up at the response to her question.

"It's a DVD of the Mariinsky Ballet, newly released. Olesya Somova in _Romeo and Juliet_."

The child had been doing her best all day to appear happy for her grandmother, still aware of the woman's distress and deeply uncertain herself of what was going on. Now, momentarily forgetting everything, her squeal of delight was genuine and almost ear-splitting.

"Can I watch it now?"

"Of course!"

Five minutes later Hope was back with Jean, having got Rosie set up in front of the television, DVD playing and with cake and tea-flavoured milk to keep her company.

"You didn't have to do that," Jean said as the other woman closed the door.

"No, I didn't, but I knew she'd be bored stiff fairly quickly, stuck here all day."

"She'll be happy now and will probably wear the disc out before the day is done!"

Settling down to their refreshments they chatted amiably for a little while, about nothing in particular, until Jean suddenly asked,

"Have you heard anything?"

Hope looked at her sympathetically and fibbed easily.

"Nothing new. They're still doing all they can." Actually, Harry had sent her a text while she had been settling Rosie in with the DVD, saying they were on to something but not to let Jean know so she felt justified in the white lie. Jean bit her lips and glanced away, not quickly enough to hide the tears brightening her eyes. Hope gave her time, topping up their teacups and content to sip her drink until the other woman was ready to talk. When she did it was very quietly and, initially, whilst staring into her cup.

"This is so unfair, you know. I don't know who it is who's taken him or what they want, unless it's money. Has there been a ransom demand?"

Hope could at least answer that.

"No. That much I do know."

Jean finally looked up again.

"Then if it's political it's totally pointless. Everyone looks at him and sees the powerful former General, highly influential in the Kremlin but the truth is far removed from that. He's having to perform a very delicate balancing act at the moment, to keep on Putin's good side whilst getting more and more disillusioned with Putin and the government. He'd like to walk but isn't sure what effect that might have, not for him but for Sasha, but also thinks that he should stay while he can still exercise some restraint on the President. But he's not part of the _cadre_ that makes the major political decisions, hasn't been for years and intends to keep it that way. So if these people think they've got a link to the inner sanctum, they're wrong."

Hope silently whistled. _She's good. She's got no idea how close to the truth she is but bloody hell it's an impressive analysis._

"If that is the case then it should be a good thing: once they realise then they'll let him go." She was silently crossing her fingers while she said it but Jean's face told her that she didn't entirely believe it.

"Will they? Or will they dump him and we'll never see him again?"

 _Well the woman is a clinical psychologist so she's not silly and is clearly a realist…_

"That would be very unwise and presumably whoever it is knows that. They've got MI5, his own security people and the FSB on their tail so even if the worse happens they won't get away with it." Jean's eyes filled with tears again and Hope reached out a hand. "It won't come to that. No-one is that stupid." _Not even the CIA. Surely?_

Jean wiped her eyes and took the proffered hand for a moment.

"I hope not." She squeezed Hope's hand before letting it go. "He hasn't had the easiest of lives you know, no matter what it looks like. Assassination attempts every few months, his son a convicted murderer and in a high security psychiatric hospital. His mother died when he was a year old and his only sister – who was a surrogate mother to her three younger brothers – died in a workplace accident when he was a teenager. He was captured by the _mujihideen_ in Afghanistan and was tortured by them for weeks on end, although he's never said what they did to him but I recognise burn and knife scars when I see them. And then there was Elena, of course." The two women looked at each other, cold horror in both sets of eyes. "How much do you know about that?"

"Enough to know she was a monster."

Jean nodded.

"That's an understatement. What she did has caused life-long damage to those two men, as well as to Harry, Ruth's family and the families of all the other people she killed." She swirled her tea in her cup as silence fell for a few moments. "You know, the whole thing was a sham from the start. We haven't talked about – her – much but the marriage as a more generalised concept comes up occasionally. Last time I asked him point-blank about whether he thought she had recruited him the same way she had with Harry. He said he didn't think it, he knew it."

Hope was reaching for a spoonful of luscious but messy cream cake but there was a tone in Jean's voice that made her stop, look up with hard eyes and cock her head with interest.

"How so?"

"Afterwards – when they had brought in the leaders of the political party she was involved with – one of them told him. Zykov, I think the name was. He told Ilya that _she_ had discussed their relationship with him and the other man—"

"Levrov."

"Yes, that was the name. They talked about the relationship before it was serious, effectively made the decision to _make_ it serious because they thought he would be useful to them in the long run: highly decorated soldier, fast rising young star in military intelligence, probably headed for high office, they apparently had plans for him to join them. When that didn't work she manipulated him into doing what they wanted instead, including drawing your husband into that final mess."

"So you're saying that Elena and her cronies made an active decision that she would marry Ilya so they could use him for political purposes at some unknown point in the future? Jesus Christ. She really should have been strangled at birth, that one. He's sure it's true, that Zykov wasn't just playing games?"

Jean smiled bitterly, remembering Ilya's bleak voice and expression.

" _I'm_ sure it's true. I've been doing some research on sociopaths and psychopaths over the past few months, including talking to some colleagues who are fairly high up in that field, and it fits. Like a glove. And yes, he's sure it's true because the FSB had the rest of the man's family in custody at the time and he knew it. You'd think that experience alone would be enough for fate to throw at any one person without whatever has happened now."

She was chewing her bottom lip, trying to not dissolve in tears again. Crying wasn't going to fix anything but she hadn't slept last night and as a result her mind had been chasing itself down rabbit-holes that all ended up in the same deeply unpleasant place and now she just wanted to weep, constantly.

"I'm inclined to agree with you," Hope murmured quietly, seeing with perfect clarity everything the other woman was going through. They had all experienced their own personal Hell, one way or the other, during their lives but it seemed that the Russian's was peculiarly drawn out and brutal. "Jean, this will be over today, I'm pretty sure of that, and he'll be home again."

"Oh God, I hope so, because I'm going slowly mad…"


	15. Chapter 15

15\. Friday 13 June 2014 - continued

 _The Grid, 10:52_

Brontee Sorenson and Waleed Yassine had been tied to their screens for what felt like forever and both were getting frustrated at their lack of progress. Even having a fresh pair of eyes to go over her consolidated data wasn't making anything stand out so they had taken a break for a cup of tea and to catch up with the others, who were in much the same boat. As the vehicle had moved out of the city and towards a more industrialised landscape the levels of surveillance had dropped so the team looking for visual evidence of its movements had less and less to work with. There had been glimpses, confirming Malcolm's interpretation of the route, and they were now desperately trawling for some sort of feed from the area where the signal had last pinged but thus far to no effect. With so many active and derelict industrial buildings they almost didn't know where to start looking…

Something in the last conversation had tweaked an echo in Brontee's mind and when they got back to their workspace she called Malcolm, D'wane and Calum in for their technical assistance in searching for a conversation she thought she remembered from their early bugging of the two SAD agents. Tallulah, as frustrated as the others at this point, had trailed in after them and was sitting out of the way but listening intently. After a brief discussion and some thought the techies went to work, the analysts joining Tallulah in quiet contemplation. The result came, surprisingly, within half an hour and they all sat, hushed, while the loop played over and over. Finally the woman mused,

"What do they mean, 'wrapper'?"

"Is it a location?" Waleed asked. "What are those others that they mention: 'birdcage' and 'sicko'? They sounded like destinations."

D'wane glanced at his boss first before responding. They owed their British friends the truth on those, even if they couldn't answer the first question.

"They're both deniable US military installations that are used for covert operations. The birdcage is at RAF Lakenheath in Suffolk and is part of the rendition facilities; the second…"

".. is at RAF Feltwell in Norfolk and is part of the covert electronic surveillance network," Malcolm finished for him, surprising everyone else, apart from Tallulah, in the room. "So it makes sense that the other one is also a location."

D'wane glanced at Brontee again, quickly. "We know they've got something closer to town but could never pin it down—"

The woman's eyes suddenly widened.

"Didn't we think it was somewhere out near London Airport at one stage? The same area they've disappeared in now?" Brandon nodded slowly, frowning, as she repeated quietly, "wrapper…"

"What if it's not 'wrapper' but 'rapper'?" Calum spoke quietly but his voice drew the attention of the other four. "Rapper as in Jay-Z or 50 Cent. Dr Dre."

"Kanye West. Lupe Fiasco. Nicki Minaj," D'wane added, seeing the same faint glimmer as his friend.

"How does that work?" Brontee asked, frowning and scubbing at her face, eyes tired.

"I don't know but I think you might be on to something," Tallulah cut in and promptly surprised all and sundry by joining the guessing game while silently thanking her youngest son's taste in music. "Tupac Shakur. Eminem. Kendrick Lamar."

Calum looked at her, eyes suddenly sharp, and held up a hand to stop the game.

"Eminem. M and M." The cogs whirring in his brain suddenly locked into place. "What if it's the old Millennium Mills? They're out there, in the Royal Victoria Dock in Silvertown, near the airport, and I don't think they're far from where Malcolm's tracker last pinged—"

"Wait until I get a plan up." Waleed's fingers flew on the computer keyboard and the latest aerial photo of the area in question popped up with the tracker path overlaid. "There's the last ping and there are the Mills, 350-odd metres away, right where Malcolm said. Derelict, surrounded by empty ground and the water of the dock and behind locked gates."

"What do we know about the current owners?" D'wane voiced the question that had popped into everyone else's head at the same time.

"It's a development partnership, I know that much," Malcolm put in. "Brontee, had you started looking into them at all?"

She had and, taking over the computer, she brought the names up. The three of them were well known, a major investment corporation and two companies that were primarily real estate developers, one of whom had links to the US and east Asia, including China and Korea. She had started chasing down the US connection, muttering,

"Just give me a few minutes and I'll get back into my research…"

As she focussed on the computer Calum looked around at the others.

"I'm going to go and get the others. I think they should know."

Within minutes he was back with Harry, Erin and Dimitri in tow. Erin was trying desperately to not be optimistic while Harry looked pained, having used Calum's appearance as an excuse to hang up on the Prime Minister, who had been chewing his ear off for the previous ten minutes. Waleed delivered a concise summary of their thoughts, after which everyone stood around, uncharacteristically undecided about what to do next. Harry was quietly attempting to dissuade his Section Chief from taking part in the raid but she wasn't having it; things were escalating, albeit quietly, when Brontee announced,

"Got it." All eyes turned to the young blonde, who flicked her computer up to the big screen. "This is the corporate structure of the company in question. If you drill down into their international offices you'll see that they have two in China – Shanghai and Hong Kong – and one in both Seoul and New York. Drilling further and you find this: a joint venture partner in the US and Korean businesses. I'd started digging into them some weeks ago but got side-tracked on other things. This is where things get interesting." Another flick onto the screen brought up the details of the joint venture partner. "The entity that owns the joint venture partner is a shell company registered in the Bahamas. It, in turn, is owned by another shell company in Liechtenstein." The final shell company's details were up on the screen, with everyone studying them intently, when she swung around and faced them, glancing at Tallulah for permission for what she was about to say. Permission received, she said quietly. "I can't tell you any more detail but the Liechtenstein company is wholly owned by the CIA. This is one way that we obtain black ops facilities so if you want a smoking gun to point to the Mills, this is it."

Dimitri and Erin were half way out the door again as she finished.

"Erin, you are not going on this mission, you are too close."

She spun on her heel at Harry's voice and glared at him.

"That's exactly why I _am_ going, Harry. My mother is worrying herself to death over this and my daughter has been uprooted from her entire life until it's over, to say nothing of the fact that they've taken Ilya on my watch and God knows what they've done to him: if it's anything bad, how am I supposed to face Rosie at some point in the future and explain to her that I sat back and did nothing when I had the chance to do something?"

"Before you go if you have a moment I can show you something that may make things a little easier for you when you get there." Malcolm's calmly enunciated words cut into their conversation and they turned to see a live feed from several cameras that appeared to be inside the Millennium Mills compound. While the field agents had been arguing Calum and D'wane had watched in admiration as Brontee handed the computer over to Malcolm and the latter had, with what appeared to be ridiculous ease, infiltrated the security system of the developers and brought up the CCTV feed from across the site. It had taken less time to pull the data he wanted from their server and it was this that he now put up on the screen.

"I've quickly been through the feeds for the likely time of arrival of the van and here it is—" the vision, distant but clear, popped up as he spoke "—arriving through the western entrance from the end of Rayleigh Road. This is where the vehicle disappears inside." The vision followed the van from the gate before switching to another camera, showing the vehicle driving up to and into the far end of the southern side of the building. "If you want to find them, that's where to go. You may need backup: they're serious about security on the site."

"Waleed, get hold of SCO19. Dimitri and I are getting our kit and going, now. If _security_ want to try it on then I will have them under the anti-terrorism laws, if not for accessory to kidnapping – or worse. Harry?"

Recognising defeat when he saw it he sighed.

"Very well. Go."

 _Royal Victoria Docks, 12:37_

 _"No. We're not doing that,"_ Galloway hissed, glancing obliquely at the battered and bloody man sitting slumped in the chair.

 _"Why not?"_ Michaeli drawled the question, fixing his dark gaze on his younger colleague. _"You said yourself we're not getting anything out of him. We've had him for eighteen hours so we might as well make him disappear instead of letting him loose."_

 _"Because it's murder. With no reason. Someone back in Langley has made a monumental mistake and we're making it worse with every passing minute, let alone after what you've done to him today—"_

 _"That's exactly my point, so we quietly make him vanish off the face of the Earth—"_

 _"Oh, get real!"_ Galloway had been getting more and more worried as the morning had gone on and his senior had got increasingly violent with their captive. He knew that they were working without explicit authorisation and that they had gone way too far, particularly with someone of such international standing, and he was now desperate to stop it going any further, in the hope that they might just get out of it with their skin intact. _"It's impossible to make him vanish! At the very least we've got his security apparatus and MI5 on our tails but if news has got back to Mother Russia then the FSB won't stop until they've got him back and got us."_

" _How are they going to know it's us? You're worrying about nothing."_

The younger man turned on him in frustration.

 _"Are you completely out of touch? This city is riddled with CCTV so even if they don't know who we are they'll be able to track us easy enough. And I'm not so sure that they don't know who we are: remember what happened to that idiot driver, getting blocked in on the Embankment by him and Pearce that night? And some of our surveillance people have reported suspicions that they themselves were being followed at times but not by anyone they could identify, so probably his security. One way or the other, if they don't fucking know by now then they will, soon enough."_

Michaeli shrugged, supremely confident, having got away with this before.

 _"So what?"_ He looked over at Ilya as he continued, _"We go and get either the lady friend or the grand-daughter? That'll make him talk."_ There was no reaction from the chair but then he didn't think there would be – the man wasn't quite unconscious but not far off it and had largely withdrawn into himself some time ago.

 _"Get them from where? An MI5 safe house?"_ Galloway's laugh was mildly hysterical. _"Fuck, you have lost the plot. I am_ _not_ _condoning this and if you go ahead it'll be on your own."_

The man in the chair was, to an extent, foxing. Despite appearances, he was still conscious and actively listening. Unfortunately for the speakers, who clearly didn't know much, if anything, about their captive's history with Afghanistan in particular and the Middle East in general, he was more fluent in both Arabic and Dari, the language they had broken into, than they were, so he understood every word. It had been something of a distraction when they had started speaking in it, taking his mind off nerve ends screaming from where large amounts of his skin had been partially scrubbed off using a very harsh brush earlier in the morning, after being woken by a bucket of ice water being thrown over him at about 5.30. The scrubbing had been followed by another bucket of water, this time salt, to 'clean' the wounds; then it had been good cop/bad cop all morning, he had been walled, threatened with weapons, shackled again, slapped and punched but it was nothing unexpected – the _mujihideen_ had been much worse – although it was significantly more painful than he remembered, particularly once the solid beatings, with hose pipe and other things, had started over the past couple of hours. All the while, though, he remained in control of himself by using detachment techniques he had learned decades before and, at every opportunity, had worked on the younger of the two men, having identified him early as the weak link. It seemed from this conversation that it had worked, or at least he hoped it had because it sounded like his life was relying on it.

The two men were still arguing; the older one walked past him and casually smacked him in the side of the head with his pistol, reopening the split in his eyebrow. Blood trickled down into his eye and he was trying to blink it away when the door to the room slammed open with an almighty crash. The guard was lying, hands bound behind his back, on the concrete floor outside; in front of him, weapons drawn and expressions grim, were Erin and Dimitri. Relief flooded through Ilya but at the same moment he realised they were now at the most dangerous point of the exercise; if they weren't careful it could end up a blood bath and he himself could still end up dead.

The younger couples' eyes did a quick sweep of the room as they threw the door open. One of the Americans was off to the side, staring, startled, at them with his hand on the butt of the gun in his belt, while the other was standing behind Ilya, a pistol pointed at the back of the Russian's head. As for Ilya, Dimitri's face turned to a granite mask as he understood immediately what had happened, while Erin also retained a steely façade as a white hot rage consumed her, replacing the nausea that had been her first reaction. The man she had come to like, her mother's devoted partner and her daughter's beloved _dyedushka_ , was seated on a metal chair, stripped to the waist, hands bound in front of him and blood running down his face but that wasn't the worst of it. He was covered in bruises and there was more blood, old and new, on his wrists, arms, torso and matting the dark hair on his chest and it looked like someone had started to skin him alive. She'd thought, for a fraction of a second, that they were too late, until he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes shimmering in the odd way they had when (she now knew) his mind was processing data at the speed of a computer. They held the gaze for a moment, somehow reading each other's intent, until the man dropped his attention back to the floor and the woman continued her rapid examination of the dungeon, noting the chain hanging from the pivot point in the ceiling and the large plywood wall fitting. She knew what both of those were for and her lips thinned as she bit her tongue and returned to looking at the heavy-set, sweating man holding a gun with sneering insolence to the Russian's head.

"Well, well, who have we got here? Come to rescue step-daddy, have you? How cute."

Erin smiled languidly and shook her head, her own gun pointed steadily back at Michaeli, while Dimitri continued to cover Galloway.

"Typical CIA. Can't even get the most basic of facts right. He's not actually my step-father. Don't they teach you _any_ research skills at Langley?"

The mildly patronising tone behind the cut-crystal accent grated on the American, particularly as it was coming out of someone who appeared for all the world as though she had just walked off the set of a fashion shoot. Choosing to not bite he responded drily,

"Hate to break your heart, honey, but it doesn't matter whether he is or isn't. Your family situation isn't the reason why he's here."

"It was important enough for you to comment on so there must be something in it. I'm flattered."

"Don't be. You're nothing more than an inconvenience—"

"'Inconvenience'?" Dimitri cut in. "I think we're a bit more than that. The game's up, mate, you might as well pack it in now."

"Ah, the war hero speaks. Make that the second war hero. Is that a family trait as well?" Michaeli was starting to relax again, feeling like he could turn the situation, and he took a step away from his captive and towards the two M15 agents.

 _That's it, keep him talking,_ Ilya thought, willing the American to take just two more steps forward. Then he would be in about the right position…

"No. It's just that some us of choose to serve our country in more ways than one and with a bit more honour."

"Christ, that's a laugh. Get the stick out of your ass, son, there's no honour in being a soldier or a spy."

Erin caught another glance, so fast she wasn't completely sure that she saw it, from Ilya and took a small step backwards, hoping the man would take the bait and follow her.

"You two can continue your debate some other time. We're here to get the Minister so if you don't mind we will take him now and leave you to explain to your superiors exactly what you thought you were going to gain."

Galloway watched as his senior took another step forward, wishing that he would just see sense. Right now, he had a very bad feeling about what his future might hold…

"In your dreams, sweetheart," Michaeli said. "You're the ones who are going to leave now and not say another word, otherwise you'll never see step-daddy again." He closed the distance between them again. "So do we have a deal—"

Erin had barely registered the tightening of Ilya's chest and arm muscles before he launched himself out of the chair, sweeping the American's gun arm up and out of the way with his manacled wrists as he cannoned into him, knocking him into the plywood wall with a resounding crash. The pair of them fell to the floor as Dimitri rounded on Galloway, who was infinitely relieved to drop his gun and offer his wrists to be shackled and have the whole nightmare over. Erin's voice drew Dimitri's attention and he swung around to see her with a gun aimed at Michaeli's head while staring in horror at the shredded mess that was Ilya's back.

"Help Ilya. While I deal with this one."

Leaving her partner to cut the wrist and ankle bindings and help the older man back to his feet she stood over Michaeli as he groaned on the floor, still dazed from being slammed into the wall. Prodding him with her toe until he opened his eyes she murmured silkily,

"You've made two mistakes, Mr Eduardo Gianfranco Michaeli." The sound of his name made the man on the floor snap his attention to her – there was only one way she could know that. His own people had been talking. "The lesser is the kidnap and torture of an international politician in my country, on my watch, and thinking you could get away with it. The greater is that the same man is the only grandfather my daughter has ever had so because of how much you've made both my mother and my little girl suffer over the past twenty four hours I have something _very_ special planned for you."

Michaeli had spotted his gun and made a sudden move towards it but Erin's stiletto-heeled foot slammed down on and through his hand, eliciting a high-pitched howl as bones and sinews were speared.

"Don't like it when the tables are turned, hey? Unfortunately for you, we've only just started."

Dimitri, having settled Ilya on another seat and draped his discarded suit jacket around his shoulders, suddenly appeared next to Erin, face like Zeus in a _very_ bad mood. Without saying a word he bent over, hauled the American to his feet with one hand and sank his other fist into Michaeli's _solar plexus._

"Come on you, up and face the music."

The following couple of minutes felt like a couple of years to Michaeli, as the British pair started to comprehensively take him apart. Galloway, having totally given up the fight in the hope of getting away with something less than a life sentence, was curled up against the wall, watching in disbelief as his elder took the sort of beating from both man and woman that was probably, in some ways, long overdue. It was Ilya's deep, beautifully modulated tones which brought it all to an end just as (unbeknownst to anyone in the room) both SCO19 and the Kaspgaz security team arrived outside, followed closely by the FSB.

"Stop, please, Erin, Dimitri. That is enough. It would be better if he was left alive to answer publicly for his actions."

They both stopped, albeit reluctantly, and there was silence in the room for a few moments until they all heard footsteps moving carefully down the temporary ramp that they themselves had driven down not so long before. At that point Erin aimed a vicious final kick at Michaeli's most vulnerable point, eliciting another almost breathless scream as he folded over and onto the floor, after which she turned on her heel and returned to the Russian's side. She was helping him – gingerly – into the bloodied remnants of his shirt when the firearms officers arrived. Dimitri was talking to them, asking them to drop their weapons and ready the prisoners for transport to Thames House when Ilya briefly laid a hand over hers and said quietly,

"Thank you, Erin. I was not sure I could hold out for much longer."

He looked grey, his voice almost creaking with exhaustion and eyes for once a flat, dull, almost murky brown and it genuinely touched her heart. He was human, and vulnerable behind the General's mask, she'd known that for a while now, and he was also too old to be taking any sort of beating, let alone one like this. It was probably only his physical fitness and strength that had let him last as long as he had.

"No thanks needed. You mean too much to us." Hearing the words the man closed his eyes and relaxed for the first time in eighteen hours but was surprised when her arms went around him in a very careful hug. It was almost too much until she murmured in his ear, "Just don't do it again – I don't want to have to pull my mother out of a murder charge when she kills you!" His faint laugh reassured her and they remained leaning together, both weak from relief, until reality in the form of the leader of the SCO19 team intervened, wanting to confirm what was to happen with the prisoners. It was going to be a long afternoon for everyone.

 _Watts household, Stamford Brook. 19:45_

Jean and Rosie had been returned home mid-afternoon by Hope after being assured by Harry Pearce himself that Ilya had been recovered and was safe. Now it was over four hours later and there was still no sign of her missing family and Jean was starting to wonder if Harry had been telling the truth. He had admitted that the others wouldn't be home immediately so she had taken Rosie shopping for a couple of hours, made her dinner and had her settled in front of the television and now was back to pacing the short hallway. _Was this nightmare never going to end?_

The sound of a key in the door roused her from her preoccupation and she looked up to see Erin coming through the door, Ilya and Dimitri behind her. Relief flooded through her, to the extent that she actually went weak at the knees for once in her life, but her former trauma-nurse's eye automatically noticed the cut above his eye and its rapidly developing lump, some other bruising and the fact that he was holding himself and moving with unnatural care and so the relief was short lived. They only had time to lock eyes before Rosie cannoned out of the front room and flung herself at the Russian.

" _Dyedushka_ , you're back!"

The man managed to restrain the hiss of pain but couldn't hid the wince; Rosie didn't notice but the adults did and Erin bent over to detach her daughter.

"Sweetheart, be gentle with _Dyedushka_ , he's had a bit of an accident and is a bit sore."

The child apologised gravely but clearly wanted to ask more questions. However, Erin hushed her again as the older couple fell into each other's arms. Eventually the child couldn't wait any longer.

"What sort of accident, _dyedushka_?"

After a second the couple separated slightly and Ilya managed to respond,

"Nothing for you to be concerned about, _katyonak_. There was a van and my car…"

Both Dimitri and Erin noticed the odd expression on Jean's face as she remained with her arm around the man, wondering why her hand felt wet and warm. She had noted when he arrived that Ilya was dressed in a completely different set of clothes to what he would have been wearing but assumed they had stopped off at the hotel to allow him to change (in actual fact Vadim Danilov had been tasked by Erin to go and pick up a new set while the MI-5 doctor had been treating him at their private medical facility); now she was starting to suspect there was more to it than that.

"Rosie, let's go back and watch TV. _Dyedushka_ is a bit tired, you can catch up with him tomorrow." So saying, Dimitri walked the girl away again. Waiting until they were out of view, Jean slowly withdrew her blood-stained hand and stared at Erin, ice in her eyes.

"You can fill me in on the details of this later. At the moment I'm taking Ilya upstairs to deal with it."

Almost an hour later she returned, Ilya's bloodied shirt bundled into a bag and intended for the bin. She had patched up the wound that had split again as well as taking inventory of the rest of the damage, realising that what was visible to the world was the least of it. Clicking into professional mode as a method of self-protection as she totted up each individual damage, it had also occurred to her that whomever had done this had known exactly what they were doing.

Her daughter and son-in-law were sitting at the dining table, having sent Rosie to bed, and were now splitting a bottle of red between them whilst picking at cheese and biscuits. They both looked up as she appeared and almost recoiled from the intensity of the anger radiating from her every pore.

"Who did this to him?"

Erin sighed.

"I can't tell you, Mum, you know that."

"Why not? I've signed your precious Act."

"It's not that easy—"

"Isn't it? You do know what they've done to him?"

The young couple glanced at each other, unspoken words passing between them. Dimitri poured wine into a third glass and held it out to Jean in a hand that showed reddened knuckles.

"Yes, we know. We pulled him out of it."

For some reason that infuriated Jean even more.

"Then you do know who it was. What sort of animals are they? It looks like they were trying to skin him, for Christ's sake." When there was no response forthcoming she threw the bag into the bin and joined them, roughly slugging half the glass of drink. "Well, can you at least tell me if it was one of his enemies? I'm not stupid, I know he's got them."

"It wasn't any of his enemies." Dimitri topped up all their glasses as he answered, emptying the bottle.

"Who, then? Why won't you tell me? It's not like I will actually find them and kill them, for all I'd like to." As she said it she realised she meant it; like that occasion so many years ago when she would have murdered Erin's father after what he did, she was now operating in the grip of a white-hot fury and, given the opportunity, wouldn't have guaranteed that she would be able to restrain herself.

"They've been dealt with, Mum, that's all you need to know. We had our say when we retrieved him and now they're having to answer to Harry. After that, it's only going to get worse for them so don't worry, they will suffer for their actions, at the highest level." Erin was unconsciously rubbing the knuckles on her right hand as she spoke and Jean realised that they, too, were reddened and bruised with a few abrasions; _what had happened during that retrieval operation?_

"I can understand Harry being involved but what do you mean by the rest? The more you're not telling me the worse it's sounding."

"It was the Cousins, Jean."

"Dee—"

"She deserves to know at least that much, Erin."

Jean stared at both of them, mind reeling as she understood at last.

"The _CIA_ were behind this? Oh my God… Why? What could they possibly have thought they were going to get?"

"The inside secrets of Putin's long-term plans for Syria, I believe."

Jean looked from Dimitri to Erin and back again, disbelief writ large on her face.

"Tell me you're kidding. I know the press say the Americans are stupid but surely they can't have got it that wrong? Ilya might have a quasi-government post but he's been out of the internal machinations of the Kremlin for years."

Erin leaned back with a sigh.

"They can be and they are. They're denying any direct orders from Langley but we don't believe a word of it, this is just the sort of cock-up that has Langley's fingerprints all over it. Don't worry about them, Mum; we know exactly where Ilya stands with his government and have done so for years, which is why we couldn't believe what they did. They're about to pay for it now though. Not only do they have Harry to deal with but there's something even worse: they're going to have to explain themselves to the Head of the London Station and she is _not_ a happy camper about any of this."

 _22:10 Interrogation Room, Thames House. 22:10._

The Americans had been kept separate, in brightly lit solitary confinement cells and in temperatures that were just too low to be comfortable, ever since they had been frog-marched in by the black clad, anonymous members of SCO19. Galloway hadn't cared, wanting nothing more than to have it all over, and so had curled up on the hard bench and closed his eyes. Michaeli had spent the first half an hour or so after he had been dumped in the room following being tended to by the medic hammering on the door and yelling, then when that had garnered no response had spent the rest of the time intermittently pacing – or hobbling, given the damage a couple of Erin's blows had done to his gonads – the cell, kicking the door and cursing. Then they had been hauled into this impersonal interrogation room, handcuffed, and had barely had time to exchange half a dozen words before Sir Harry Pearce himself had graced them with his presence, fixing them both with an unnerving amber stare. The silence stretched and stretched, growing ever more uncomfortable until Michaeli couldn't stand it any more and started on the attack, demanding to know why they were being held and insisting on being released. It availed him nothing, the Englishman remaining sphinx-like until there was a quiet knock on the door before it opened to admit Tallulah Zanon.

From there, slowly but surely, it all went down-hill for the two SAD agents. Between them, Harry and Tallulah managed to quickly back the pair into a corner from which they couldn't escape, not that Galloway bothered. He'd given up, answering whatever questions were put to him, still in the hope of getting out of the situation alive and infuriating Michaeli in the process. The latter, finally sensing the noose tightening around his neck, leapt to his feet and leaned his hand-cuffed fists on the table.

"You can't do anything to us, either of you. We were working under the direct orders of the Deputy Director of Covert Operations and he will have something to say about this—"

"Ah, now there you're wrong, I'm afraid," Harry broke in genially. "Langley, in its entirety, has washed its hands of you two. What you've done is far too hot an international political potato for them to swallow so they've thrown you to the wolves. I'm just the first in what will be a long line of very hungry beasts."

"I'm calling bullshit on that one, Hal. Our boss has a direct line to the Director of the CIA and he's not going to take this lying down, is he Tallulah?"

Michaeli had no idea what he had said but suddenly the Englishman was face to face with him over the table and had his throat in an iron grip.

"No bullshit, Teddy-boy," Harry hissed, incensed at the nickname that only Jim Coaver had ever been permitted to use coming from such a one as Michaeli. The man was starting to turn purple by the time he released his hold by pushing him back so that he fell into his chair, very nearly going backwards. "Now sit down and show some respect for once in your misbegotten life."

After a short silence Tallulah steepled her fingers and rested her chin against them.

"Sir Harry is quite correct in what he says, Agent Michaeli. I concluded a lengthy phone call with the Director in Langley before I came here this evening. It appears that President Putin was informed of your actions late this morning and for the rest of the day has been screaming blue murder into the ears of both Prime Minister Cameron and President Obama, promising a major international incident if you aren't handed over to our friends in the FSB immediately we have finished with you tonight. In order to avoid that, the Director has been told by President Obama to cut you loose and he, I and Sir Harry agree. No matter what your 'orders' may have been from Langley, you have overstepped the mark so far with what you have done over the past day that you have given us no other option." Leaning back and relaxing her hands she added, "If it is any consolation, the Head of Covert Operations has been removed from his post and from the Agency tonight as well."

Galloway had lifted his head and stared at her in horror as she spoke; by the end he had tears welling in his eyes while Michaeli was stunned and disbelieving. Seeing the reactions and having briefly caught up with Ilya before he was released from the medical centre, Harry couldn't help but to give a diamond-bright smile as he followed up with a simple,

"The only direction you two are going after we've finished is east, to Moscow. I do hope you like sub-zero temperatures and enjoy cold showers." The shadow of Lucas North flitted through his mind, bringing with it the inevitable regret but he pushed it aside for the moment – Lucas, whatever his faults and whatever he had done – had not deserved those eight years in Hell, whereas this pair in front of him had earned twice that much, at least.

There wasn't much more to be said but Tallulah and Harry kept toying with the pair for another hour or so because they could. Just before midnight Harry received a call from the head of the London desk of the FSB informing him that there would be a flight out at dawn so she would be over in person to pick the pair up in four hours. With nothing further to do he had both Americans hauled back to the holding cells and he and Tallulah made their way to the basement car park. On the way down and after she had bluntly asked him, Harry confessed that he had indeed been the one who had tipped off the FSB and therefore, indirectly, Vladimir Putin, largely because he had been so irate about what had happened. She merely nodded and they walked out into the gloomy, and mostly empty, concrete space towards their vehicles, talking about their plans for the weekend. Tallulah's Kawasaki was closer so they stopped there first; she had zipped her Kevlar jacket, pulled on her gloves and was lifting her helmet out of the box on the back when she stopped for a moment and asked quietly,

"Harry, you remember what I said about my replacement?"

He certainly did.

"What's just happened may only make things worse. The man has some history with the head of Covert Operations – they served together in Kuwait – who has just been removed. Knowing what I know about him, be aware that he will be out to get Section D, one way or the other, for this."

An echo of a chill raced up Harry's spine and disappeared as fas as it had appeared, leaving him momentarily uncharacteristically anxious. Shaking it off, he responded,

"I'll bear that in mind as well, Tallulah. Thank you. And thank you for your assistance in getting our current issue resolved."

"See that you do, Harry. As for the other, it's been a pleasure."

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _He's back. Thank god, he's back. Hope retrieved us and took us home and Ilya eventually turned up with Erin and Dimitri. I didn't know whether to throw up or cry so I contented myself with crying and throwing myself into his arms at the same time. And that's when I found out what had happened. I felt him stiffen when I squeezed him but he didn't say anything. Then I realised my hand was damp where it was resting against his back. It was covered in blood when I pulled it out._

 _He had been tortured by the Mujahideen in Afghanistan in 1979, and by others since, and now he has been tortured again. He's trying to brush it off but I can't. Erin has assured me that the perpetrators will be dealt with but if it was me I would kill them._

 _But he's back. And that's all that matters._

Erin's Diary:

We got him back and mostly in one piece. Although those bastards from the CIA are currently spending time at Her Majesty's pleasure while awaiting extradition to Moscow to pay for what they did. Rogue agents, my arse. We know that it was deliberate orders from Langley, trying to stymie what the Russians were doing behind the scenes, despite Ilya having bugger-all to do with any of the politics – so much for wanting a peaceful resolution to the situation, now we're going to be back to sectarian civil war in Syria because of their actions, and all because they fancy they want to retain their non-existent influence in that part of the world or, more likely, because they want a war somewhere to continue, now we're all leaving Afghanistan, to continue to prop up their economy.

As for what they did to Ilya, we did what we could to make those creeps pay in full for that. Even if he wasn't my almost-stepfather I'd still be absolutely furious that they did that at all, let alone on my watch on British soil. How fucking dare they? The fact that he is my almost-stepfather and that they've devastated Mum just makes it so much worse. I think seeing the mess they'd made of his back was the final thawing for me: he looked exhausted and a little vulnerable, then seeing that… All I could do was give him a careful hug and assure him that they would pay. He seemed relieved, and thankful but he wouldn't agree to let me tell Mum, he wanted to do it himself. She realised before either of us had a chance, anyway, because he was bleeding again through one of his dressings by the time we got home. At lease we managed to get Rosie out of the way before she realised as well. Damn the Yanks.

Ilya's Journal:

They came for me today. Just on 18 hours: impressive. I was never so glad to see my future step-daughter and son-in-law as I was today and confess that I was delighted when they seemed to take such joy in sinking the boot into the Americans. Erin assures me that they will pay for what they have done and I believe her but for what those Americans put Jean through I will never forgive them so if Erin, or Harry, does not or cannot take action then I will – I have already given Vadim orders to remove our employee who was the CIA's spy inside my company and then make the man's life a misery for a few months afterwards. The look on Jean's face when she realised what had happened is something I never want to see again and she was so angry when she finally saw the extent of the damage. That most of it is superficial, although extraordinarily painful, did not matter, her sense of justice was outraged and I believe she would go after them herself, if her daughter had not already done so. However, I do trust Erin and Dimitri, especially as they take the typically British delight in having a valid opportunity to shaft their cousins across the water, and have no doubt that Harry will now be taking even more pleasure in exacting retribution for the same reason.

I am exhausted and Jeannie has just finished her shower so it is time to retire for some recuperation.

 **A/N: the next chapter moves forward 11 months, into the timeframe of the movie.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Part 2. May 2015**.

 _16\. The Grid. Friday 8 May 2015 10:45_

Sound had momentarily faded but Harry could feel the knives, thin, sharp and deadly, sliding in between the ribs of his back even before he turned away from the wall of screens looming overhead that were showing the flickering remnants of a simple exercise that had gone so terribly wrong. He knew he had made the right call but he also knew something was very, very amiss and it was nothing to do with Adem Qasim per se. His antenna for trouble was screaming as he turned to face the wolves, ignoring the almost subliminal drawing back of those packed on the floor of the Grid as though they were afraid of catching the contagion that he now clearly carried. His gaze, raking across his so-called superiors, was both impassive and scorchingly hot: this whole thing stank of a set-up but what for, by whom and how he was going to prove it he didn't yet know.

They were standing, clustered together and exuding disapproval, towards the back and away from the screens: the ice-cool Geraldine Maltby, Deputy Director-General and her smarmy little side-kick, Philip Emerson, Francis Warrender, Head of the Joint Intelligence Committee and, the ultimate indignity, Oliver bloody Mace masquerading as the Director General. The latter's re-emergence last year from the stinking depths of whatever sewer he had been hiding in to take the top job had been, on the one hand, the sort of surprise he could happily have done without and, on the other hand, no surprise at all. It was exactly the sort of stunt he would pull and if there was one thing that Harry had never doubted it was Mace's ability to manage upwards. Now, the man could barely contain the glee in his eyes at the thought of finally, after decades of trying, he had got Harry Pearce right where he wanted him: on the way out.

His eyes swept past them, almost contemptuous, as he surveyed what had become of his nerve-centre, and he suddenly realized that he loathed all of it. The leaders who were no leaders at all; this new billet that had been imposed on them, with everyone cheek by jowl in dim lighting, conditions he was convinced were unhealthy, and the despised, high security break-out room that was supposed to be sound-proof but wasn't, completely, and generally served no purpose but to sit there and take up floor space that could have been better utilized in other ways. And then there was the corporatised attitude that had crept in, stifling creativity and increasing sniping at all levels. Or maybe he was just old. Too old for the modern world, anyway.

Old he may have been but age had done nothing to dull his nose for trouble. There was something wrong about what had just happened, but not wrong in the normal sort of way. Wrong in that it reeked of politics. As his eyes returned to the group, where Mace was still doing nothing to hide his satisfaction at the turn of events, Tallulah Zanon's words from last year came back to him with crystal clarity.

"'…he's already talking up 'increasing the already close relationship with our British colleagues' so watch your back. He's an underhanded little gutter-snipe and generally finds someone inside his target to help him achieve his aims," had been her initial comment when the name Harris Higham had come up as her replacement, to be followed by the other warning after the debacle last year that had almost created an international incident and put Ilya in hospital twice over the month afterwards as his internal injuries first became obvious and then had worsened after everyone had thought he was getting better: "…may only make things worse. … he will be out to get Section D, one way or the other." Harry didn't know and cared even less what had become of the pair of SAD agents after they had been shipped to Moscow but those words suddenly took on deep significance.

Tallulah had been retired for over six months now and was, he believed, enjoying herself with her husband somewhere in the Azores so she wasn't here to check with but he didn't have to, he knew she was right. And, as it looked like he had just sunk whatever was left of his career, he was going to do his damnedest to find out who was behind it and stymie whatever their plan was.

 _The Gherkin, 12:10_

Hope hadn't been able to concentrate since the short text from Harry, informing her that something was up and he would call her as soon as he could. That had been well over an hour ago and the unsettled feeling that had come as she had read the short missive had only increased its intensity. There was something in the wording that concerned her and possibilities had been chasing themselves around her brain ever since, making her preparations for the afternoon's discussion panel patchy at best.

Her husband had been growing increasingly disenchanted with his work since before Christmas. Ostensibly it was because of Oliver Mace's miraculous resurrection to the top job and certainly that man's incessant, thinly veiled sniping and barely disguised back-stabbing had made the situation worse but the truth was that it had started long before that. The change in the world that had occurred on September 11, 2001 had impacted everyone on the planet, one way or the other, but for Harry it had become personal, as the betrayals and the losses mounted one on the other, faster and faster, until in the space of a few days he had lost a comrade from the old days, an old friend, a young colleague and Ruth. That had sent him staring into the abyss, the one on the edge of which he had been teetering when she had returned to his life, and together they had managed to draw him back and he had begun to recover, insofar as either of them ever would from their losses.

All had been good until, oddly enough, what had happened to Ilya Gavrik almost a year ago. For some reason that had played on Harry's mind ever since, the pointlessness and savagery of the whole thing, and although Ilya had recovered both physically and psychologically, the Russian's consequent refocussing of his life onto priorities which he now identified as more important than playing political or business games (essentially family: Jean, Rosie and even, quietly, Erin and Dimitri, as well as Sasha) had awakened long-buried doubts about whether everything he had done since the mid-1970s had been worth anything and whether he might be better off walking away and doing something different, better, with the rest of his – their – life. She hadn't demurred – she was tiring of the internal squabbling and petty politics of the think tank herself by now – and they had been quietly making plans for retiring in a year or two. But this message— Her phone vibrated in her pocket, breaking the train of thought.

"Hello, Sweet, what's up?"

"Everything." His molten chocolate voice sounded weary but there was an edge to it, an edge of honed steel anger. "I'm sorry, my love, but I'm out of a job tomorrow morning."

"What? Why?" She got up and closed the door to her small office on the twenty-seventh floor of the Gherkin, wandering over to the window wall to gaze out over the city, her eyes settling on the glittering splinter of the Shard and she absently wondered if Ilya was at work today.

"I'll tell you tonight but I think we should prepare to activate _Odysseus_."

 _Oh, shit!_ 'Odysseus' was their emergency exit plan and entailed going dark, possibly permanently.

"Harry, what's happened?"

"I've been set up, that's what. But I don't think it's that simple. We can talk about it later. What time are you home?"

"Now, by the sounds of it!" She turned away from the view and took the few paces to her door before turning around and returning to the window.

"No. Don't break your routine – I don't trust any of this. So what time do you finish?"

"Normally, about four today. Where are you?"

"Stopped in traffic on the way home."

There was silence for a moment before she said quietly,

"If we have to activate _Odysseus_ then maybe you should go and visit Ruth. It could be a while…"

At the other end of the phone Harry, yet again, was astounded by Hope and a rush of love surged through him. Not too many wives would have even thought of that, let alone suggested it: going to visit the woman who would have been in her place had things been otherwise. And, he suddenly realised, it would give him a chance to have a quick meet with Erin, tell her what had happened and advise her to burn the job, now.

"Yes, you're right. I will."

 _North-east of London, 15:55_

Erin thought about his words as she slowly walked away from Ruth's grave. 'It's too dangerous…because I won't be able to protect you.' She wasn't going to admit it to him but he was probably right about the danger. Although she had denied having her cover blown she wasn't actually so sure about it herself. They hadn't just closed ranks, they were deliberately ignoring her and it had been going on for the last week, completely out of the blue.

She had been keen, six months ago, when the opportunity to get out in the field, truly undercover, had arisen. Adem Qasim had gone from a name on a list to a major threat in what felt like the blink of an eye and Section D had been considering how to get someone inside his organization when the opportunity had dropped into their laps in the shape of two of his inner circled being caught in the act of planning terrorism and had ended up enjoying Her Majesty's hospitality. Erin had completed a law degree before she had joined the intelligence services and it had been her idea to try to get at the group from that direction while they were still trying to find another asset to embed with them.

Harry had been a little reluctant but eventually acquiesced when she convinced him that it would safe as she would be working out of established chambers and would only be dealing with them in the confines of prison. And so it had started, just after the new year, when Harry had called on his contacts and had her placed at a very prominent Chambers, known particularly for their human rights work, in Doughty Street. It hadn't taken long for her to insinuate her way into the confidence of the two men with her talk of, and genuine efforts towards, an appeal. She had even begun assisting with a couple of their brethren, in the country illegally, in their applications for asylum. However, about three weeks ago all of them had started to withdraw, turning down opportunities for meetings and being almost monosyllabic on the rare occasions they did talk, very obviously guarding what they were saying.

Today's events had stunned her but also explained what was behind the change in attitude. Finding out now that Harry had paid for it with his job was as much of a shock. She was inclined to agree with him that the whole thing stank to high heaven so she would take his advice to walk but not until she had given it a good shot tomorrow to find out where Qasim was. She owed him that, at least.

 _Harry and Hope's house, 21:50_

Hope was in bed, propped up against the bedhead with a tablet resting on her knees, when she found herself for about the third time in ten minutes staring at the door, mind miles away from the document she was meant to be finishing. Instead, she was brooding on what was about to happen over the next few days.

They had spent hours going over what they would do in response to the activities of the morning. She also agreed that the whole thing reeked of rotting fish, although the source of the seafood wasn't clear at the moment, or the reasoning behind it. The sudden change to their lives she accepted – there was no point in wasting energy bemoaning something that couldn't be altered – but it was her husband's plans for finding out why that had her worried.

She was due to go to Lucerne tomorrow for a two-day forum; although she would have been happy to drop it Harry had insisted again that nothing in her routine should change, as he suspected they would both be getting watched. Instead, he had already spoken to Malcolm about some help in going dark so he could do what was needed under cover. They would not trigger _Odysseus_ until she was safely in the air and on the way to Switzerland. Harry had also spoken to Ilya earlier in the evening, quite by coincidence – the Russian, back in the country after he and Jean had spent three weeks in Moscow, had called after hearing about what had happened earlier in the day and also smelling a rat – who had offered any assistance required once he heard the outline of the plan, and furthermore Harry had intentions of getting some help, albeit in a round-about way, by using MI-5's tactics against them, to bring young Will Holloway back to London.

All of which was very well but it was the plan to get in contact with Qasim himself to find out who was behind it all that had her worried. There was no way that man was going to hand over information for nothing and the price he was likely to charge could be anything. Harry had already begun cooking up a bargaining chip with Ilya but she wasn't sure what it was so she had a feeling she wasn't going to be doing much sleeping for the next few days.

In the en-suite Harry was finishing his ablutions and surreptitiously watching Hope in the mirror through the partly open door. She had been nothing but supportive and he knew she would remain so but seeing her worry flicked his guilt switch on – what was he doing to her? And was it going to be worth it? Or was the shadowy figure of destruction that seemed to follow him everywhere going to do its damage yet another time. If what he suspected was correct, though, how could he not act? He might be out on his ear in the morning but even so he couldn't, in all honesty, leave the institution to which he had devoted his entire life to be subsumed into a juggernaut that trailed clouds of dark suspicion wherever it went.

Sighing, he hung his towel up, snapped the light off and went to join his wife in bed. Drawing her into his side he said quietly,

"I'm not sure I should be doing this, my darling. Especially to you."

She dropped the tablet on the bedside table and leaned in more, resting a hand on his bare chest and breathing in the clean scent of soap.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be right, as long as you don't go getting yourself killed. Playing with a psychopathic Islamic terrorist isn't the safest thing to do." She dropped a kiss on the bullet scar on his shoulder. "You still haven't entirely told me everything, though, have you? Like what it is that you think is really behind what's happening."

Another sigh escaped him. He really should know better. Hope, as well as being the beautiful, glowing, lodestone of his life, had a brain as sharp or sharper than anyone he had ever met and had, from the start, been able to see straight through him.

"That's just it. I can't prove anything yet but I know this was a set up and I can't forget what Tallulah Zanon said last year about her replacement. How he has interesting ideas about inter-departmental 'co-operation' and usually finds an insider to help." Kissing her temple he continued, "The CIA have always thought they should run the entire western world's intelligence apparatus, particularly us. Their relationship with Six is already highly questionable as to who's in charge sometimes and on a personal level they've been out to get me for years, particularly as they still blame me for Jim's death. Ever since Mace took over they've been cosying up to the top floor and of course Oliver being Oliver, he's lapping it up while they're casing the joint."

"You don't think he's the insider?"

"No. That much I will give him: he'll take all the ego-stroking they want to offer but he won't work to undermine his own position. No, it's someone else and I need to find out who. They've cost me my job; the least I can do is return the favour."

"They've cost me my job as well so we'd better both work at taking them down."

"I know. I'm sorry—"

"I'm not," she interrupted, kissing his ear. "I was getting fed up with the politics anyway."

He was silent for a moment, considering.

"If it was anyone else but you, my love, I wouldn't believe a word of that comment. But, as it _is_ you…" He kissed her back before sighing. "First I've got to find Qasim and get the name, then I can deal with them. With Malcolm's help, and Ilya's, it shouldn't take long."

"I hope not." She glanced at the clock, grimaced and reached out to turn off the bedside lamp. In the sudden darkness Harry felt her slip out of his arms to stretch out flat. "We've both got an early start in the morning so we'd better get some sleep."

"After we've enjoyed what might be our last night in the same bed for a few days," he murmured in that velvety tone that always melted her heart, sliding down to cuddle her. He could hear the low, come-hither laugh in her tone as she responded,

"' _After_ we've enjoyed ourselves, indeed…"

 _Jean's Diary_

… _Erin told me that this undercover op she's been on for months will finish tomorrow so things should return to normal, or as normal as it can be with Dimitri still away in the Middle East somewhere. Although I doubt if it actually will be normal and who knows what job she will be going back to, as it looks like Harry has been fired. Apparently that escape on the news this morning wasn't quite as it appeared. Ilya said much the same thing after he had spoken to Harry this evening. In any case I suppose we will all find out what's happening with her job in a couple of days. It'll be a relief getting her back to Thames House, which I never really thought I'd say, but considering what she's been doing lately…_

Erin's Diary

…it's taken forever to get Rosie to bed tonight. I can't believe how excited she is now that the confirmation has come through that she's been accepted into the Bolshoi summer school. Ilya maintains he had nothing to do with it, that she got in on her own merits, but I'm not entirely sure he's telling the truth. Not that it matters: I know she does have genuine talent and it's blossoming by the month, so she deserves to have got in. I'll be looking forward to their little graduation performance at the end of Summer. Dee might even be back from Syria by then.

It's going to be strange going back to Thames House after the weekend. I expect to get my old job back but I'm not sure I want it if Harry is no longer there and I suspect Mace won't trust me so I certainly won't be offered Harry's job again. Not that I could bring myself to take it even if they did. So I have no idea where I'm going to end up. In some ways I wouldn't mind staying where I am – they're a good lot in Chambers and I find I don't mind the human rights work, although I also suspect I'd get bored in the long run. No matter what happens on Monday, I will be glad to see the back of Qasim's bunch of nutters. They're arrogant, nasty and none too bright and I'm fed up with their hypocrisy. Can't wait for Sunday afternoon – once I've got Qasim's location out of them (and I've got a fair idea already of where he's probably hiding out) I'll be out of there.

Ilya's Journal

…I had been unaware of the events of this morning until listening to the news on the radio this afternoon whilst waiting to surprise Rosie by picking her up after her ballet lesson. It immediately seemed unusual so I called Harry later and found the likely truth, with which I agree. His job is over but he does not intend to go quietly. We discussed some plans – telephone encryption makes these things so much easier – and I have offered assistance, in fact have already been in contact with Moscow. Like Harry, my sixth sense is telling me that something is very awry. I am also concerned about Erin, as I know she is dealing with Qasim's group, albeit undercover. He said he ordered her out for her own safety but I believe I know her enough now to know that she will obey but only when she thinks she has done what she can to help…

Harry's Diary

It was the look that confirmed it. Burning arrogance staring straight back at me through the CCTV. Qasim knew exactly who he was talking to – not some anonymous watcher but me, specifically. And there is only one way he could have known that. So the question is, who was behind this morning and was their target just me or is there more to it? I believe I know the answer, and the few I have discussed it with agree, so I will not be going quietly into the dark to suit any of these people. I will find out who they are and take them down with me.


	17. Chapter 17

17\. London. Saturday 9 May 2015

 _Lambeth Bridge, 07:00_

It hadn't taken long. Harry had arrived at his office for the final time at a little before six, after having dropped Hope at the airport for her flight to Geneva. Fortunately he had never been in the habit of keeping personal items at work so it had taken no time at all for him to clean out his desk. It was funny – he had always hated his old red-walled fishbowl of an office one floor up but he hated this new one even more and wouldn't be even remotely sad to never see it again. It had no character, no comfort and no memories.

He had spent the time before his appointment upstairs with Calum and a couple of the other senior staff: the man who had come over from the Northern Ireland desk to cover for Erin and the ex-RAF chopper pilot veteran of Iraq who had joined Section D in January from her post in military intelligence to fill in for Dimitri when he had been seconded to the covert operation in Syria for MI6. Harry had liked both of them and had looked forward to working with them for longer but it wasn't to be so they talked for a few minutes and then it was time to face the demons. Calum watched him go, straight-backed, formidable, exuding confidence, like Charles 1st at his execution, and felt depression settle on him as he considered a future without the captain who had been at the helm of their ship for almost a quarter of a century. It wasn't a great prospect and he briefly wondered if it would be worth the effort to stay. Like Harry, he had hated the move to their new, cramped, impersonal and too public quarters and now, with everything changing so fast, it might be the time to get out. He didn't think he was going to be able to stand it much longer.

Upstairs, Oliver, of course, couldn't help but to gloat; Geraldine was more circumspect, doing her best to mitigate her superior's more excessive tendencies. However, after about three minutes Harry had had enough; before Mace could utter the words to decommission him, he had stood up, taken out his card and work phone, thrown them on the desk and said,

"Save your breath, Oliver. I won't say it's been a pleasure working with you. Geraldine." He nodded at her, turned on his heel and walked out without a backwards glance.

Five minutes later, after a brief farewell to the security man at the front desk (whom he had known for the past two decades) he walked out the doors for the last time and stopped at the side of the road, waiting for the green light to cross. Pulling out his personal phone, he glanced at his watch and, satisfied, made the first of three calls, using an encryption app supplied by Malcolm. She answered on the first ring.

"My love?"

"It's done. Where are you?"

"Walking down the air bridge to the plane."

"Any sign of trouble?"

"No."

He heard the air hostess welcome her aboard and direct her towards her seat.

"You have everything?"

"Yes. Once I'm through the other end I'll set things in motion."

She sounded so calm yet he knew she wasn't. Neither of them had slept much and had ended up talking quietly into the night, about anything except what was about to happen. Now they were both about to fall off the radar, which included having to be extremely circuitous about contacting each other for a few days. Despondent, he rubbed his forehead for a moment before saying quietly,

"I'm sorry, Hope."

"For what? Living up to your principles? Don't be, they're the ones who will be sorry." Her voice was warm and accepting but he fancied he could hear some tension in it. He was correct. Shuffling sideways into her window seat she sat down and leaned back to stare outside, face turned away so no-one could see the turmoil on her face. "I have to go, Harry. Be careful. I'll talk to you tonight."

"Okay. I love you, you know that."

"I know." The cabin crew were starting to glare at her, she could feel it on the back of her head. "I love you, too. But I'm getting a death stare from the hosties so I've got to go!"

At least he managed a brief smile at her final words but he didn't have time to consider any more. The light had turned green so he walked across the road, making a second phone call. This one was to Will Holloway's emergency service box. The message was short and to the point but the content didn't really matter because it wasn't necessarily aimed at the young man; it was aimed at his former employers whom he knew would be monitoring his behaviour for however long it took for their plan to reach fruition. He had no idea where Will actually was but was banking on Five finding him and bringing him back to London ASAP, particularly once he set the stage for them. Then there was one last call, to Malcolm Wynne-Jones.

"Harry."

"Are you into the CCTV?"

"Of course."

Harry was entering Lambeth Bridge, directly opposite Thames House, by now, ready to finalise the first part of the plan.

"The boat is on its way?"

"Yes. You will have two minutes once you're down before it arrives to pick you up. Are you sure about all of this?"

"Completely. Very well. I'm almost there. Be ready to do what you need to do and make it good – so obvious that even Mace won't miss it."

There was a dry laugh from the other end of the line.

"That won't be too hard."

"Thank you. I will be in touch."

Hanging up, Harry walked in silence to his designated departure point, the first of the granite-faced, reinforced concrete piers on this side of the bridge. It had been chosen carefully: CCTV coverage was only good from one angle and, most importantly for today, there was maintenance access to below the bridge deck and then a safety ladder to the water. Pausing for a moment he gathered his thoughts and then hauled himself up on to the base of the light, standing still, in full view of the cameras, for long enough to ensure a good image for Malcolm, before making his way around the light pylon and dropping down, unseen by watching cameras, onto the access hatch. Another minute and he was through and on the walkway below. Glancing downstream, he saw the barge coming and without further ado climbed down the ladder and onto the larger abutment at the base to be ready for his lift.

As it nosed in next to him, engines keeping it as steady as possible in the current, Harry had a bitter-sweet moment as he saw the person behind the wheel. He had known, of course, that it was the same man but it really hit home now he saw the weathered face again. He had been there nine years ago and he was here now, the skipper MI5 had been quietly using for decades to slip people away into the mists of a new life. The last time Harry had seen him had been the day when he had farewelled Ruth into exile, due in no small part to the actions of Oliver Mace. Now, the skipper was taking Harry into probable exile, again to some extent because of Oliver Mace…

Jumping nimbly onto the deck he greeted the man with a handshake and remained in the small wheelhouse with him until they were on the move again and well away from Thames House. He wasn't going far – only to the pier at Putney – but it would mark the irrevocable end of life as it had been. There would be no return to Thames House, no more protecting the populace of this sceptred isle, no more Sir Harry Pearce. Or there wouldn't be: he wasn't done just yet.

 _Lucerne, Switzerland. 17:35_

It had felt like a long day already for Hope and she wasn't finished yet. There was the obligatory dinner tonight to which she would not be going, although she had told everyone the opposite; not long after it started, she would be on an overnight train to Hamburg. Thus far, she had played her part on the panel discussion this morning and as a presenter early in the afternoon; after that she had quietly disappeared and spent some time closing down most of their on-line accounts and transferring everything into the local account that Harry had maintained for years. There was quite a lot in it by the time she had finished, including the proceeds of the sale of her house in Canberra and Harry's place in Pimlico – they fortunately hadn't got around to buying anywhere else yet so were renting in London – and would have more once he sold the other couple of properties he held in other names but about an hour after she concluded those transactions she had visited the bank in question, removed almost everything and manually transferred it to another account at another bank, one they had opened together when they had decided they might need _Odysseus_ one day. This was in yet another name, the ones they would be living under for at least a while, and by doing the transfer manually she had ensured there was no electronic trail to follow. She had even been paranoid enough to change her appearance with a blonde wig, sunglasses, ankle boots and designer jeans and shirt, should anyone decide to check the CCTV. She didn't think they would but it never hurt to be careful.

Now, she had walked around the city, killing time until the train left, as she would not be going back to the hotel. She had joined the tourists in thronging the mediaeval _Kapellbr_ _ü_ _cke,_ marvelling at the old wooden structure and admiring the restored paintings that had survived the fire but also remembering a previous visit here, on holiday back in the 1980s before she had first met Harry, when all 147 of the paintings were still in existence. The bridge was still chocolate-box pretty, as was the setting, and the craftsmanship was impressive but she felt it had lost something now, between the damage and too many people. Or maybe she was just showing her age. As on that previous visit, thirty years before, she had continued wandering and ended up here, in the small, quiet park that housed the famed Lion of Lucerne carved into a sandstone cliff on the far side of a reflecting pond. Most of the tourists seemed to have departed for the day so there were only a couple of scattered, small groups in the area.

As last time, the sight left her desolate: beautifully interpreted, the magnificent, dying creature tugged at her heart-strings and brought tears to her eyes. It might have been a monument to the Swiss Guards who had been massacred during the French Revolution but it also spoke to her of all of those who had died in service of their country, no matter where or when, and that included both her husband, Wynne Sharrug, and the woman who would have been Harry's second wife, Ruth Evershed, both taken long before their time. All for causes that were apparently so important at the time but in the long run often weren't, despite the cost they extracted. At least the Swiss Guards had a public monument to remind everyone of that cost; Wynne, Ruth and the others were lucky to have their gravestones and even then they said nothing of the reality behind their presence. Wynne's stone was marble, the traditional Commonwealth War Graves design but with nothing apart from his details because she had never been able to think of any words that would encapsulate anything like what she felt. Ruth's was black basalt, equally elegant but with a few words that she knew had expressed Harry's desires, for all that he didn't believe any of it – there would be no glorious, longed-for reunion in the afterlife because the afterlife didn't exist. He knew, as did she, that here and now was all that anyone got.

Glancing at her watch, she realised it was time to go. Shouldering her large day-pack again she turned and disappeared into the growing throngs of workers heading home on the city streets.

Erin's Diary

Today was one of those lovely little days that occur so infrequently. Just me and Rosie doing girlie stuff all day. Nothing major, or even important, but no tantrums or attitude from either of us, just simple pleasures. I will make sure it happens more often as it's good for both of us.

On the down-side I had the call confirming the meet tomorrow afternoon. Harry's done his disappearing act today but I can still contact him so I'll make it quick, find out what I can and let him know. Then it's back to a whole new world on the Grid on Monday.

Harry's Diary

The end was quick when it finally came. I could tell that Mace was intent on dragging it out for as long as possible so he could enjoy his apparent win but I'm afraid I wasn't in the mood to indulge him. So far it's all gone as planned and now I'm just sitting here, in a tiny, flea-bitten room above a down-at-heel pub in Aldershot, waiting. Waiting for my erstwhile employers to take the bait and get Will Holloway back from wherever he's hiding (Ilya seems to think he might actually be in Moscow – something got mentioned when he was talking to his contacts about my idea); waiting to hear from Erin; waiting for something, anything, from Hope. I know she is on the train but I miss her, in so many ways…


	18. Chapter 18

18\. Kent. Sunday May 10 2015

 _Millbank 08:25_

Will Holloway walked away from Thames House with an unsettled feeling that he couldn't quite shake. He was still tired from the adrenaline-filled lift out of Moscow last night: completely wired by first the fight and then the flight, he had slept little once he had been dumped at his anonymous, generic accommodation. The woman who had been part of the pick-up crew – Hannah Santo – he knew from his time with Five, although she had then been working for a different section but she still hadn't let anything slip no matter how hard he tried to wheedle it out of her, so he had spent hours pacing the room, trying to work out what it was all about. That had achieved nothing and he wasn't sure if he was any better off now.

After he had crossed the road he stopped and looked back at the place where Harry had staged his disappearing act. None of them believed a word of it but it was one of the things that was niggling him. The attempted cover-up was almost amateur – the others might have bought it for a while but Will, knowing Harry, was fast coming to the conclusion that it was deliberately that way, designed to point someone in a certain direction. Then there was the phone call to his emergency service box, something Will had given up checking two years ago. _Presumably,_ he mused as he continued on along the river, _'someone' was the upper echelons of MI5 and the 'direction' was towards one Will Holloway, former employee and someone they assumed they could use against the man who had been a thorn in their side for forty years._ Will wasn't so sure about that, either: they had their disagreements and he was still smarting at the abrupt decommissioning but underneath it all he had vast respect for the professional abilities of his father's close friend. It was more likely that Harry was using Five's own habits against them to unwittingly do his bidding to get Will back in town…

He had actually told them to take a hike when they had asked him to help track the older man down, and he had meant it, but then Mace, the snake, had tossed out the bone of finding out more about what had happened on that night in Berlin when his father had died and Harry hadn't, with the insinuation that there was more to the story than what he had been told. So he had agreed but the reality was that it was more to find out about what Five was up to; he would make up his mind about Harry later.

 _14:50_

Harry was sitting in a nondescript motorway café on the M25, going over his plans and options, when his burner phone lit up. Swiping to answer he waited for the voice to resonate warmly in his ear and he wasn't disappointed.

"Hello, my love. How's it going?"

He could hear traffic in the background at her end but, as always, hearing his wife's tones relaxed him instantly, allowing the mild anxiety that had quietly been the background to his life for many years, albeit disguised, dissipate.

"To plan, so far. It's so good to hear from you."

"And you. But tell me what's happening."

"Not much but the first part has worked. The young man is back in town."

Hope, standing by a road around 275km away gazing up at a monumental white marble arch covered in names, stopped looking and focussed on the footpath as she listened instead.

"You know for certain?"

"Yes. I was watching as he came out of Thames House."

"Darling—"

"Don't worry, I wasn't in view of any of the cameras. Our Welsh friend had tipped me off – he was monitoring inbound traffic for me after he had managed to track the youngster to our old Eastern Bloc foes – so I returned to the city early, on the off-chance that I could confirm they'd taken the bait. And they had. The new DG was never as bright as he likes to think he is."

"And now?"

"Now I'm waiting to receive a location for the target. Then I move."

Returning her attention to the 54,896 names listed in front of her the fear suddenly clenched in her gut again but she didn't allow any of it to transfer to her voice.

"You're absolutely sure they'll trade?"

"Yes." In the café, Harry drained the last of his pot of over-strong tea into his mug and, like his wife, kept his voice steady, unremarkable. "I spoke to Ilya. The package is in Moscow and he has already spoken to the appropriate people about what they are likely to want in return. I foresee no problems there."

A truck rumbled past at the other end of the line, almost drowning out her words.

"Okay. I don't need to tell you to watch your back."

"I will." More traffic noise rumbled. "Where are you? It's very noisy."

"I decided not to stay in Germany so I've come to visit some ancestral relatives instead. I'm in Ypres. The names of a couple of my great-uncles are on the Menin Gate – I'm just about standing in front of them but I think it's getting on for knock-off time, the traffic is getting heavier with every passing minute. I'll probably stay around here somewhere tonight, then keep going in the morning."

"Don't go too far – this should all be over in a day or two and I'll have to catch up with you!"

 _Sittingborne 16:30_

 _You would never know,_ Erin thought as she walked down the street towards her small car, _that a place like this was the location for a group of serious terrorists. Grimy, inner-city flats yes, but quiet, pretty suburbia?_ True, there was nothing about the street that was outstanding but it was a neat, tidy row of houses with well-kept gardens and not much traffic well and truly out of London. _Still, that was the point of it – not drawing attention to themselves._ She knew enough to recognise that this wasn't the actual nerve-centre of Qasim's operation – she hadn't been able to winkle that out of them – but it seemed to be some sort of half-way house between their city base and their coastal loading point, which she had finally uncovered today. It had taken some circuitous questioning but, working with the trust that she had built up with the group over the past six months, she had got there in the finish. Now, she just had to pass the info on to Harry and she could go home, put all of this behind her and see what came next.

Rounding the corner she got into the car, pulled out her phone and rapidly tapped out her message. It wasn't much - just the time and location of the meet tonight where Qasim would be present – but it still took the better part of a minute and just after she tapped 'send' the passenger's door opened and one of the men – an Algerian – who had been at the meeting got in.

"Let me see that."

"What? No, it's nothing—"

"We'll be the judge of that." As he spoke the driver's door also opened and one of the other men reached for the keys. Deeming it better to be compliant, although her adrenaline was surging, she managed to remain calm as she acquiesced. The phone was a burner, with only one phone number in it – the temporary one Harry had given her – and the message was encrypted but she didn't like the way this was going. There had been no indication of trouble during the meeting, or none that she had been aware of. The man with the phone had examined it quickly before looking at other.

"It's encrypted."

Before she knew it the one on her side had grabbed Erin's arm and began to haul her out onto the street.

"You're coming back with us. We need to know what you're up to."

 _Stamford Brook, 23:55_

There was vodka in the glass on the side table but it hadn't been touched. They had come over to the house at the request of Luciana, the latest _au pair_ , who had become increasingly worried when Erin had neither returned nor been in touch as the evening wore on; Jean had gone upstairs for a shower and to bed half an hour ago, after he had convinced her to stop worrying for the moment about where Erin was, as it wasn't the first time she had dropped out of communication for her job. However, knowing what he did about Harry's plans, Ilya wasn't as sanguine as he made out. His sixth sense was full of foreboding because, although neither Harry nor Erin had said anything, he could make a good guess where she had been going this afternoon. She really should have been back by now.

His mobile flashed silently, indicating an incoming call. With some trepidation he picked it up and answered in Russian.

 _"Yes?"_

He could hear nothing but silence for a moment before a voice that was ancient, dry, broken but still unmistakeably Harry Pearce resonated, quietly, down the line.

 _"Ilya."_

Nothing else came – he got the impression that the Englishman was struggling to speak.

 _"What has happened? Where is Erin?"_ The response sounded suspiciously like a sob and Ilya's blood ran cold. _"Harry?"_

 _"I'm sorry. I couldn't stop it."_

More silence.

 _"She's not coming home, is she."_

 _"No. It went wrong…"_

During the following hesitant detailing of what had taken place Ilya first felt himself go grey and then, slowly, a blinding magnesian whiteness began to burn in his soul. Unlike others, including Harry, Ilya did not experience uncontrolled fury at such times; instead, he descended into that incandescent melting point which saw him become passionless, methodical, objective, almost robotic in determining and carrying out justice. Harry's anguished description of the brutality of Erin's demise and the craven threat to film and publish it to the world crystallised his nascent plan. Like a well-oiled machine, one part of his mind was ticking through the steps as the rest of it concentrated on the other man's anguished voice which faltered to a stop soon enough. They both sat in silence, drained, gutted, wondering what the world had come to that this sort of behaviour had become commonplace and, now, had touched them personally.

On the Isle of Sheppey Harry lifted his face and stared up at the stars, incongruously bright on this most dreadful of nights from his place back inside the ruins of the boat builder's yard where he had started this evening. His tears had dried during the fraught conversation and now his thoughts also turned to what was next. That switch had been flipped the moment Qasim had said 'we have a deal', in the immediate aftermath of Harry acceding to Erin's begged request to end it: she had held her hand over his, both fingers on the trigger, and started the squeeze but he had finished it. He would never forget that moment, and he would never forgive… Then they had taken her away, bundled up like garbage in a tarpaulin and tossed in the back of a van, leaving him kneeling in the cold mud, tears streaming down his face and too traumatised to move for a good fifteen minutes, wondering why this kept happening to him. Or, more to the point, to the women around him. He had desperately wanted to ring Hope but knew there was another priority that was higher – Rosie, Jean… and Ilya.

 _"Harry. Can you identify these people?"_

 _"Yes. Enough. But Qasim is mine."_

 _"As I would expect. I will continue to assist in any way I can with that, however I want the pleasure of dealing with those who treated her as disposable myself. Do you know where they have taken her?"_

Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the scintillating sky that was suddenly too brightly, uncaringly remote.

 _"No. But I will send you everything I have so far._

" _Thank you."_

Another silence fell for a few moments as the men contemplated what had happened. Another child deprived of its mother – Harry had been thinking of Wes Carter almost continuously, when he hadn't been thinking of Rosie – and another mother deprived of her child. Neither man could imagine how that would feel, losing your child, for all that Ilya felt Sasha would never fully return from wherever he was in his mind and Harry had felt both his children lost to him for many years. But they were all still alive. Erin was not.

" _Ilya, she won't want to hear it now but when she does, tell Jean I am doing everything in my power and if I don't succeed then I know you will. And Rosie…"_

The Russian leaned back in his chair, reached for the drink and then thought better of it. It wouldn't help. Feeling older than Methuselah he responded quietly,

" _This world we live in. It extracts too high a price."_ Rubbing his forehead he added, " _We will avenge her, Harry. I will start preparations in the morning – contact me by our normal channels when you can."_

They signed off with little more to say, Harry to scour the now-deserted site for whatever he could find of use and Ilya to toss his phone back on the coffee table and wonder just how on earth he was going to do what had to be done. A quiet sound made him whip around towards the nearest doorway, which lead out into the small hallway at the bottom of the stairs, and he saw Jean standing there, watching him steadily out of wide blue eyes.

"Ilya. What was that about?" Jean, having been unable to sleep, had been standing in the doorway for a couple of minutes, listening to her beloved conducting a quiet conversation in his own language. Although she had been learning Russian she considered herself to be at about the conversational equivalent of a five year old but she understood enough to be suddenly terrified. When he turned towards her, rising out of his seat, she noted his ashen pallor and put two and two together. "Oh no, no—"

He in turn watched comprehension flash across her face as she, also, turned sickly pale and wavered on her feet. Fortunately she was only a few steps away so he got to her in time to catch her and break her fall but they still ended up on their knees, Jean clinging to him with anguished denials and floods of tears soaking his chest, all muted for fear of waking the sleeping child upstairs. All he could do was hold her and add his grief to hers.

After an eternity, her sobs subsided and she asked quietly, into his shirt,

"How?"

"Jeannie—"

" _How?"_

He sighed internally – she would have to know sooner or later.

"It seems they realised she wasn't who she said she was so they shot her. Harry had been in a meeting with their leader when she was dragged before them and did his best to stop it but these people are uncivilised…"

A knife cut through her soul and an almost soundless wail escaped her, still muffled as her face was pressed against him, and more endless minutes dragged by until another question surfaced through the sobs.

"There's more to it, isn't there. What aren't you telling me?"

 _How did she know?_ He had never met anyone who understood him so well, except possibly Svetlana, his late older sister, when he had been a child…

"I'm not sure that's for now, _pchelka—"_

Finally she looked up at him, eyes red-raw and swollen, face blotched with grief but with a fierce expression that he had not seen before.

"There will never be a right time, Ilya. She is my daughter, I think I have a right to know."

Torn as he was, he could not deny that. His voice was so low it was hard to hear.

"She took the bullet to her stomach and didn't die straight away. They filmed it, so they could put it on the internet for Rosie to see if Harry didn't agree to what they wanted."

"Jesus Christ," she whispered, not wanting to believe what he was saying but knowing it was true while trying to control her heaving stomach. "How can anyone ever think to even do that? I just don't… and Harry?"

"Did what needed to be done to stop that happening."

Tears welled again and she sank down so they were both sitting on the floor, where they stayed, her face buried back in his shoulder and his cheek resting on the top of her head as he rocked her, gently. Finally, she asked, with faint desperation,

"How are we going to tell Rosie?"

There wasn't much option, as far as he could see.

"Honestly and openly but with only the minimum of detail. There is little point in any other method, I think. The news is life changing however it is approached – whatever and whomever it was that she was going to become has gone forever, now, and there is no gentle way to break that to her. None of us will ever be the same."

"Oh God, and then there's Dee…"

"He will not be told until he returns from operations. And then we will be here."

With nothing more to say they remained where they were, Jean weeping helplessly while the cold, pure white light of justice burned ever harder and more blinding in Ilya's heart.

She had no idea how long they were on the floor but her joints were complaining and her back was stiff by the time her tears dried – for the moment – and she lifted bloodshot eyes to her love, only to catch sight of an expression she had never seen before and hoped to never see again. He was staring into space, his face like a carapace of iron and eyes flat, frozen, alien, unblinking; together, it was terrifying but, right now, it was also exhilarating. He had been a trifle too slow to conceal it – it vanished when he shifted his attention to her – but perhaps he had not, perhaps he had _wanted_ her to see it, and she didn't need to ask what it meant because that wintry, ancient creature living in her amygdala recognised it for what it was and gave a bitter cheer. The same way it had cheered thirty-something years before when her battle-hardened, World War Two paratrooper father had, along with her brothers, dealt with Kerry O'Hanlon…

Remembering that, tears welled up again: her daughter's life had been far too short and blighted by violence at the very start and the very end but she had achieved much in between. There could have been so much more but now they would never know; for her sake, as well as Rosie's and Jean herself, she would be more than happy if Ilya was to act. She held his gaze, looking deep, beyond their shimmering surface, and nodded once before burying her face in his chest again, allowing the tears to flow.

Ilya's Journal

Today was the sort of day that no-one should experience. Erin has been lost to those murderous thugs who claim to belong to a religion of peace but who act the exact opposite. I do not know, perhaps the religion is peaceful but these followers choose, like so many others in so many different faiths, to pervert it for their own purposes, but what they do in the name of it is sickening. Jean is devastated, of course, but preparing to be strong for Rosie. We do not know how to tell the child that her mother is gone… Harry is dealing with Qasim but I am dealing with the others, not least because I want Erin back, for Jean and Rosie. I have already told Diederick to be on the first flight to London and will meet with him and Vadim tomorrow to prepare our plans.


	19. Chapter 19

19\. London. Monday 11 May 2018

 _Will's Hotel, 07:15_

Will Holloway placed his phone back on the small desk and gazed around the room as he considered what had been said. His accommodation was comfortable enough but soulless, as was generally the case in hotels, but he had to admit it was better quality than he had expected. But then again it would be because they wanted something. Specifically, they wanted him to bring in Harry Pearce. _Yeah, that was going to be a doddle…_

The television was still yapping on with the big story of the morning, that Five was under intense scrutiny – not least because of the escape of Adem Qasim, that psycho little turd with the silver tongue who had been rocketing up the Western world's most-wanted list for the past twelve months – and the Cousins were using it as an excuse to take over joint initiatives in future. _More likely they wanted to take over the whole thing_ , he thought sourly, remembering the rumours that had been circulating around the time they had damned near set off an international incident by kidnapping that Russian friend of Harry's. Will might have been given his marching orders before the event but he had still heard about it and had wondered what the Americans had thought they were doing. Ever since, whispers had been blowing in the corridors of the international intelligence community, both government and private, that Langley, or someone within it, was out for revenge for the perceived humiliation of having the two senior staffers involved in the incident sent to Moscow, although thus far nothing obvious had happened.

The phone call had been odd, though. Geraldine Maltby, whom he had barely met before she and Mace had shanghaied him back from Moscow, was suddenly being all friendly and letting him in on – supposedly – confidential information, showing how certain she was that he was on their side. He still wasn't so sure about that. Thinking about it almost continuously since yesterday morning and making his way through the historic paperwork they had provided him hadn't worked in the manner he presumed they had meant it to; rather, it had just raised more doubts in his mind that the man he had known for his entire life could possibly have gone to the other side or, come to think of it, betrayed Will's father in Berlin in the 1980s, as he had long suspected. Now, something the woman had said didn't ring entirely true and was only serving to turn his suspicions towards them and away from Harry.

She had said that Harry had picked up a burner phone that they'd tracked to the Kent coast, where they had also found evidence of Qasim picking up weapons from North Africa. He had to wonder why, if they knew the burner was his, they hadn't picked Harry up last night—

A faint sound disrupted his internal monologue and he glanced around, searching for its source. It didn't take long to see the postcard on the floor; it took much longer to work out what it meant, triggered by a memory of something mentioned during his training in old-school spy methodology. As soon as the penny dropped, he knew where he had to go.

 _Kapsgaz Offices, The Shard, 10:30_

Diederick du Plessis was shown into his boss's London office by the quiet, efficient, middle-aged woman who had been Ilya's local PA for years, as soon as he had arrived from Moscow. Vadim Danilov, the fair-haired, pale-eyed Siberian was already seated at the small meeting table and Diederick went over to join him, which was where Ilya found them five minutes later. The older man looked tired and grim but greeted his head of security normally and they all made themselves comfortable. There was no preamble as Ilya launched straight into the matter at hand.

"Gentlemen, what I am about to say does not leave this room. Ever." Vadim glanced at du Plessy, to whom he actually reported, not Gavrik, but the other man remained with his attention on Ilya, face giving away nothing despite the tone of voice in which the words were uttered. "Erin Watts was murdered by Adem Qasim and his group last night." That did elicit a response, in that the two security men exchanged glances this time, both sets of blue eyes wary but expectant. They knew how much all the members of the small Watts family had come to mean to Ilya. "I am already assisting with the Qasim issue but there are others who need to be dealt with. You should also know that they are all involved in an active terrorist plot here in London that is expected to take place very soon. We will reconvene when I have further information but in the meantime this is what I would like done."

It had been many, many years since he had been involved in anything like this but it all came back effortlessly so Ilya outlined his plans in a spare, minimalist voice and with no expression that either of his underlings could see, having reverted to the ruthless, dispassionate efficiency that he had been his hallmark in the army, GRU and KGB as well as, more recently, the international business world. Now they knew what the summons was about both of the younger men relaxed a little, back in a world they both understood very well. There had been times when they had undertaken similar operations over the past decade but that had been confined to Africa or central Asia and usually didn't involve killing – more often than not it was to do with protecting assets – so they both recognised that they were all going to need to be extremely careful this time around.

"Diederick, I want you to take the lead on this – use your experience and your contacts again."

Du Plessy was about to turn 50 but looked younger. A hand-span taller than his employer, he retained the build of the rugby player that he had been in his youth but since honed by the twelve years he had spent in the French Foreign Legion after leaving his place of birth in Zimbabwe and the following decade working internationally for the well-known mercenary outfits of Blackwater and Aegis Defense Services, before he had been poached by Kaspgaz. He enjoyed working for Ilya Gavrik: they were two of kind and understood each other perfectly and the work was always either challenging and/or interesting. This job promised to be both, not least because of where they were: staging what Ilya wanted, in London, and getting away with it was right up his street… Nodding his shaven head once, he responded with a crisp,

"Yes, sir," and stood up to go, Vadim following him.

Ilya breathed a sigh of relief, not because he thought there might have been issues with his orders – he knew there wouldn't – but because that part of the day was over and he could get back to Jean and Rosie. The morning had been horrendous; neither he nor Jean had slept so when they had heard Luciana getting Rosie up they forced themselves to join the child before she was too far along the path of getting ready for school. What followed were a few minutes that none of the adults, let alone the girl, ever wanted to experience again… Rosie had cried herself into a semi-hysterical collapse, wrapped in her grandmother's arms; knowing Diederick was due in any minute from Moscow, Jean had whispered to him to go and do what had to be done. Now that was complete he was going right back home to tend to his small family.

The sudden realisation that thought brought to him was almost a shock and he spent the time descending to the car park considering this, the ultimate curve ball, that had remade all their lives in an instant. Rosie most of all, of course, but Jean wasn't far behind and then there was Dimitri, still unknowing, and he himself. He hadn't thought, at this stage of his life, that he would be taking on parenting duties again and he knew Jean was of the same mind but now they were about to do so, gladly, for the sake of their new family, particularly the child who, unaccountably, loved him as much as he loved her and who desperately needed them both.

Arriving at the car park he found his company vehicle – he wasn't up to driving today, that much he knew – was already waiting so he sank, silently, into the plush leather and closed his eyes in utter exhaustion as he was driven to yet another future that he hadn't planned but, this time, was prepared to meet.

 _Green Park, London, 13:10_

Having just spoken, briefly, to Will, Harry sat quietly on a bench in Green Park and watched the world pass by for a few minutes while he thought about his plans. Hope had been the first person he had rung this morning on his new burner phone – coincidentally to her new burner, whose number she had dropped in their temporary FTP box last night – and her response (a quiet, vicious _'bastards'_ ) to the news of Erin had reinforced the turn that the plans had taken. This was now a two-pronged attack: not only would he get whomever was responsible for the damage being done to Five but he would now also take great pleasure in destroying Qasim himself, one way or the other. Feeling buoyed by the call – she was about to depart Ypres – he had had a busy morning but now it was time to take stock. Or so he told himself: he knew that the reality was that he was putting off calling Ilya because of the pain he knew the other man would be going through. Shaking his head at his craven thoughts he suddenly punched the numbers in and waited for the Russian to answer. He didn't have to wait long.

"How are they?"

"As well as can be expected, under the circumstances. The child is inconsolable, as is the mother, but we are doing what we can to ease her pain." There was nothing Harry could say in response to that, dealing as he was with his own devastation, so he was glad when Ilya's deep voice continued, "What of the plan?"

"Proceeding. I have spoken to our technical consultant about your supplier's request and he believes there should be no issue. I've already been in contact with my inside asset to assist us. You?"

Ilya had been leaning in the back doorway, watching Jean and Rosie sitting silently at the outdoor table picking at some fruit; now, he turned away and walked back to the kitchen bench to put together the tea tray. "I briefed my people this morning and preparations are under way. We will be ready when we are needed."

Harry gave a nod, although he knew he couldn't be seen.

"I have some information that I'll send you this afternoon. A summary of everything I know so far including names, addresses and faces."

"Thank you." Movement outside caught his eye as Jean stood up. "I need to go, Harry."

After they terminated the call Harry got to his feet and began to walk towards the Tube station. There was still much to do.

 _Jean's Diary:_

 _This has been the worst day of my life. You're not supposed to out-live your child and yet now I have and I'm not sure how I'm going to cope with that. If there was a god, and I don't think there is after today, I would thank it for Ilya's presence in my life because he's the only thing that's holding Rosie and me together. He's just as desolate as we are but is directing it towards a greater purpose – finding those responsible. I don't know the details and don't want to but I'm also immensely grateful that I've been blessed to have the men in my life that have been willing and able to act on my behalf when I've needed it: first, for Erin and now, for Rosie. I wish I could take part but Rosie precludes that and I know that, of all people, Ilya doesn't need assistance to do what is required. The expression on his face last night was terrifying but also made me exultant: whomever they are, they are about to realise they've made a mistake._


	20. Chapter 20

20\. Germany. Friday 15 May 2015

 _Two hour's drive west of Berlin_

The drive westward out of the city had been silent thus far, both men thinking about today's denouement to the activities of the past week. Qasim had at least shown his true colours to the world with the explosion that had killed Francis Warrender and a number of innocents. Now, things had gone pear-shaped with the untimely demise of their bird-in-hand. Harry had no reason to disbelieve the FSB agents' explanation of the cause of the woman's death, although he suspected the 'accident' was from rough handling rather than anything genuine and he had seen enough dead bodies to know that she hadn't been in that state for very long. Ilya would probably skin them alive if Harry wanted him to, after the efforts he had put in to organise the exchange and given that it was part of their justice plan for Erin but Harry wasn't sure it would be worth the effort. The deed was done and now they had to deal with the hiccup in their plans…

 _At least the week hadn't been a total write-off,_ he thought as he steered the hire car along the A2 towards Hannover, accelerating to overtake a truck that was obscuring his view of the road ahead. He had got Will fully on side, particularly now that June Keaton had nicely proven that all Harry's suspicions were correct and that they were dealing with a ruthless schemer who would stop at nothing to destroy the Service. Qasim and his cronies were clearly just a sideshow, a tool to be used to their own end, no matter what the cost. He just hoped that whatever they were getting out of their actions was worth it, although he couldn't imagine any sort of pay-off that would justify it.

Will, for his part, was staring out the passenger window, not really seeing the German countryside as it flashed past. He had been shaken to the core by what had just happened. He hadn't completely believed Harry's thesis that someone, probably the CIA, was out to destroy MI5 but events kept happening that had slowly challenged that mind-set, culminating in Oliver Mace's attempt to render him to one of their dark sites in order to interrogate him more thoroughly about the man currently sitting in the driver's seat of their hire car. Geraldine Maltby had been part of that, playing good cop to Mace's bad cop, he now realised, leaving a sickened feeling in the pit of his gut. He hadn't told Harry yet but he suspected either Mace or Maltby might have been the one behind the traitorous plan although, knowing Harry, he would have already come to the same conclusion.

June's perfidy today had really sealed the deal to completely jump ship to Harry's cause. He had wondered at the time about her explanation for Vass's death but had chosen to not say anything about it so the revelation of the trap in the derelict building had been like a smack in the face and then her confession to the source of her actions had been like a blow a little further south. He might have his own arguments with the Service but he couldn't imagine any reason on Earth that would make him blindly follow such a course.

Then there had been the news that Erin was dead, killed by Qasim. It was at that point that he had understood that Harry's actions now had a double focus, to both find out who was selling out Five and get the person who was responsible for her murder. Qasim was the link but it was clear that Harry thought he wasn't solely accountable – the blame was squarely placed on the shadowy figure or figures behind the terrorist's escape. He now wondered why Hannah Santo had given him the file on Erin – they had clearly forgotten, or never realised, that Will had worked with Erin, albeit briefly – and whether that had all been part of this diaphanous plan or just a coincidence…

He realised the car was slowing and brought his attention back to the road to see them moving over towards a slip lane that led to some Services, not far east of Peine.

"We've got a long drive ahead of us so it's time for a break and to refuel. I also need to make a phone call," Harry responded to the unspoken question in the look the younger man had directed towards him. He was as good as his word, leaving Will to tend to the vehicle while he wandered off to the side, pulling his phone out of his pocket. As always, Ilya answered on the first ring.

"We have a small problem, my friend. The package had expired by the time it was delivered."

The silence at the other end was complete for the seconds that it lasted as the Russian absorbed the news.

"It was fresh when it arrived last night, my contacts assured me of that. I will look into it."

The voice was foreboding and for a fleeting moment Harry almost felt sorry for the pair who had delivered the problem and the rest of the Berlin FSB desk by association. But only almost.

"I believe there was an accident. It's something you can follow up with eventually if you wish but in the meantime I've adapted the plan." He explained, briefly.

"That is risky but I think you have no other option."

"Agreed. We won't be back until very late tonight so would you be able to organise something for me for tomorrow morning? We need a fully equipped observation van so that our security consultant can play his part."

"Consider it done."

Harry could see Will re-emerging with some drinks and food in hand so he added quietly,

"How is your research going?"

"We have more closely defined the area but will still need an address and I am awaiting some further information on the subject's personnel to come through from Moscow this afternoon, although I do not believe it will add much to what you have already provided. The team is on twenty four hour standby. We need her back: nothing will be final until then."

"I know. Tomorrow will reveal all."

Harry's Diary

Tomorrow – make that today – this should all be over and I can return to whatever is going to pass for real life. Assuming any of us come out of this alive, which I fully intend to do. I spoke to Hope earlier, before we crossed the Channel. She was in Finland, still on walkabout, waiting for the overnight ferry to Stockholm and said again that she wished she was here, helping, but of course it's safer for her to be where she is. I know she's worried, as am I, but there is little either of us can do about it so we didn't discuss it. The die is cast so I'm banking on it coming up with a six. There is no other option.


	21. Chapter 21

21\. Saturday 16 May 2015.

 _Uppsala, Sweden. 11:20 GMT_

Hope hadn't wanted to stay in the city once she'd arrived in Stockholm. She wanted fresh air and open skies today so she had decided, on the spur of the moment, to go to somewhere she had long wanted to visit: Gamla Uppsala. After finding somewhere for a quick breakfast she had wandered through town to the railway station and taken the first train north out of the city to the old university town where she was currently wandering the streets around the centre and trying to not think about what was happening in London. Leaning for a moment on a stone wall she looked over, and down, into the small, slightly overgrown yard to see a tumble of small kittens playing among the bright green. A smile twitched her lips as she watched the antics of the tiny lion pride for a minute or two but her uneasiness soon kicked back in and she turned her back on the cute fluffiness to find her way to the bus out to her destination. She'd always hated days like today – it was so much easier when you were in the thick of it, no matter how much adrenaline was burning through your system, rather than sitting out of it trying to control the creeping trepidation that came with having no part of the action…

 _University College, London. 11:55._

Jean was sitting in her office attempting to work on edits to a paper she was due to publish shortly but getting absolutely nowhere, her mind miles away. She had thought it might help to return to work rather than sit in an empty house, waiting for a daughter who was never coming home again, now that Rosie had asked to go back to school for the last few days of term, but it hadn't. She had felt like she was living in some sort of hellish limbo for the past week at least in part because, although she knew, unequivocally, that Erin was gone, without the proof provided by a body she couldn't help retaining hope that it wasn't true and the cognitive dissonance caused by holding those opposing thoughts was eating away at her sanity. Rosie seemed to be handling it better but she suspected that was only on the surface and for the same reason: without the finality of a body, the reality of death hadn't hit home for the child, and her equanimity after the first couple of days of boundless despair was beginning to worry both Jean and Ilya.

Sighing, she wiped away the tears that were leaking from her eyes again and glumly stared out of her slightly grubby window. Ilya had been an absolute rock, of course, although as tormented by the events as she, and she didn't know how she would have coped without him but he was dealing with it by organising, with Harry, their own form of vengeance. She didn't know the details and didn't want to – she was as well aware of the concept of plausible deniability as anyone – but it was comforting to know that something was underway. She could almost feel the subterranean creakings of some colossal machine rumbling into life on the infrequent occasions he was on the phone in her presence to those assisting and that, on its own, scared her. Whatever was going down was dangerous and it was happening today – very soon, she thought – and a feeling of dread was overwhelming her with every passing minute. Ilya could look after himself but then she had thought that about Erin, once.

She would be glad when today was over.

 _G4S sub-depot, East London, 12:13_

Ilya and Diederick had taken a punt that their research was correct in that Qasim's group's workshop was in East London. As such, after he had spoken to Harry very briefly first thing this morning, Ilya had arranged for the crew to meet here, at this anonymous, slightly run-down building that looked like nothing more than a storage shed but was actually one of a number of technical facilities owned by a provider to G4S, the major international mercenary supplier with whom one of du Plessy's old Legionary friends worked at a very high level. Now, they were waiting, on edge, for the address of their target.

As ever, Ilya – unexpectedly dressed in a suit, a deliberate ploy to throw the people they were about to attack off balance, even if only for a moment – was diverting himself by working, scrolling through emails on his phone and tapping out answers or reading reports as required. Diederick and Vadim glanced at him occasionally, quietly impressed by his coolness, as they were unable to be quite so unflappable despite their combined battle experience, being more energised by the prospect of action than their boss apparently was. They were wrong; underneath his imperturbable façade he was actually feeling the adrenaline build and was honest enough to admit to himself that he was looking forward to this. Not only to achieve revenge and justice for his trio of ladies but because it was action of a sort that he hadn't taken part in directly since leaving active service in the early 1990s. Back then, he had loved nothing more than to apply an objective eye to a problem and develop a solution, much like his engineer father had done throughout his work and life. That had been a large part of his enjoyment in playing elaborate cat and mouse games with Harry in Berlin: he had recognised an opponent worthy of his respect and, now having got to know the man, albeit under less than desirable circumstances, he knew his judgment then had been right. As he knew it was now.

 _Speak of the Devil…_ his phone flashed, signalling an incoming call from the man himself. Their exchange was short; the original plan had gone awry as the target hadn't swallowed the deception with the woman but, somehow, he had dragged it back onto the tracks. He had an address and Ilya and his crew probably only had half an hour at most to get there and do what needed to be done before the Plods descended on the place. Ilya repeated the address and smiled with the teeth of a crocodile – partly by chance, partly by intelligence, they were in the same neighbourhood as the target. Sliding the phone into his pocket he looked up at his assistants.

"Time to go. Mathilde?"

The lean, lanky, former Sudanese child refugee who had been quietly monitoring the streets from her high-powered laptop gave a sharp nod as her fingers danced over the keyboard in response to the street name. One of Malcolm's senior employees, she had started out, as many did, as a teenage hacker but had gone legit when she had joined Naval Intelligence straight out of school. Malcolm had snapped her up some years before and now, because he was doing something similar in the unremarkable obbo van parked on the other side of the Thames from the National Theatre, he had seconded her to deal with enough of the CCTVs in the area that the two vans full of mercenaries about to leave would not be able to be linked to what was about to happen. After a few seconds she glanced up at the Russian and announced,

"You're clear to go, Sir."

 _Qasim's workshop, East London, 12:18_

The workshop was dingy and unprepossessing in a street of equally grimy and unremarkable buildings in an area that was home to many small workshops and manufacturing places, the majority of which were closed for the weekend, which suited Ilya and his crew; the fewer witnesses to what was about to happen, the better. As expected, there was nothing to show what was really happening inside and, for the moment, the place appeared to be deserted, to the extent that Ilya briefly hoped that Harry was right in that only a small group had left with Qasim, leaving the rest behind. He also hoped that at least one of the pair Harry had identified were still inside.

They scoped the place quickly, noting that the main workshop roller door was closed but that there was a side office door. That would be their entry. On his signal, heavily armed men dressed from head to toe in black exited the two vans in silence and Ilya led them to the side door. Vadim tried it and, to everyone's surprise, found it was unlocked, meaning they weren't going to have to break it down. Leaving enough of the crew to secure the roller door the rest entered, walking rapidly down the corridor towards the workshop. Vadim and a couple of others went ahead, checking the side offices as they went but they were all empty; as the group approached the final door Ilya extracted his pistol, a Baikal IZH-79 – a basic, reliable 9mm weapon that was so common on the streets that it was known as the hitman's kit - and, from habit, screwed the silencer on while the rest swung their assault rifles into position. Vadim placed his ear to the door for a moment, caught Ilya's eye and nodded: they were still in there. The older man gave a silent count-down and on zero they burst through the door, his supporters firing their sub-machine guns into the air while Ilya walked to the centre of the room, tall, dark and exuding a cold fire.

The eight men in the room had all hit the floor as soon as the bullets started flying; expecting they knew not what, they heard words in a language that they didn't recognise and then a deep voice commanding them, in English, to get up. One of them made the error of reaching for a weapon in his pocket and was immediately felled again by a blow to the side of the head. Footsteps sounded and a well-shod foot kicked him.

"I said, get up. And do not be so stupid this time."

He did not look up until he had been pushed by another of the invaders over to join the rest of his fellow _jihadis_. When he did what he saw was the last thing he expected: a business man, to all intents and purposes, dressed in a bespoke suit but with eyes of flint and a gun held in a way that suggested he knew how to use it. Time stopped as an absolute stillness descended on the cavernous space while the tall stranger subjected every one of them to an uncomfortably penetrating gaze.

Harry had initially given Ilya descriptions of the two men who had brought Erin to her death and had followed up, probably courtesy of their mutual Welsh friend, with information and some old surveillance photos of those known to be in Qasim's inner circle, including the pair concerned, and Ilya had gained a little extra from his contacts in Moscow. Much of the past few days had been spent by Diederick du Plessy and his crew unsuccessfully looking for their targets' whereabouts – it seemed they were constantly on the move so they'd never found them – but in the meantime Ilya had memorised the faces and he was now examining the men in front of him to ensure he got it right. There was no sign of the first man, an Algerian skinhead with piercing scars all the way up his right ear – presumably he was with Qasim – but the second was, ironically, the one he had just kicked. A local of Turkish descent with short, dark, curling hair, neatly trimmed beard, a mole next to his left eye and a scar on his left cheek that disappeared into his hairline, he was already sweating, which was all to the good.

Taking a couple of steps closer to the group he fixed those deadly eyes on the Turk and said,

"Where is she. The woman you disposed of for Qasim."

Fear rippled through the group, both at the words and the use of their leader's name, but they still couldn't make the connection between what had happened and what appeared to be a Russian hit-squad holding them at gun point.

"I dunno what you're talking about, mate—"

The gun in the tall man's hand gave a quiet cough and one of the _jihadis_ fell to the floor, a neat hole in his temple. To the Turk's disbelief, the other man hadn't blinked and had barely seemed to look at the man before he shot him. Returning his attention to the one in front of him, his eyes strangely shimmering yet opaque, the Russian said calmly,

"Again, where is she?"

Far more used to the fevered excitement of their fellows or the intense passion of their leader, now surely destroying the inner sanctum of the security services, the group under scrutiny found themselves completely un-nerved. The tall man was akin to a pillar of ice and may well have been an automaton for all the expression he was showing and they had no idea of what to expect next.

An older man, standing just off to the left of the Turk, suddenly stepped forward and sneered.

"Where we left her, rotting in the ground like the infidel whore that she was—" The gun coughed again and a bullet ripped into his bicep, causing him to scream in pain. Ilya recognised the man from Harry's data file as an Egyptian hanger-on of the group, not inner-circle but trying to be, and although he might not have been involved at the site of Erin's death he probably had been in the hours she was held beforehand. Harry had said she had been beaten and Ilya was quite happy to believe that this man had probably been part of that so a bullet was the least he deserved. Unsmiling, he responded calmly,

"If you want to survive you will keep a civil tongue in your head and answer the question."

"Survival doesn't matter. As we speak our leader is ripping the heart out of the British security services for which we will all be welcomed to _Jannah_ to sit with the Prophet."

The hazel eyes were still, hooded and unnervingly empty.

"Then I will ensure you do survive but you will not be whole." The man's face went ashen as the pistol changed its orientation, pointing further downwards. "For your earlier comment and your intransigence the next bullet removes your man-hood." The gun spat and the man's ear-splitting shriek echoed around the large room as he collapsed to the ground, hands clutching his groin and blood spilling everywhere while whispered exhortations to Allah rustled in the corners.

Ilya turned his attention back to the Turk, who was now visibly trembling and sweating profusely. The man stared back at him, hypnotised: in his mind, the Russian had the eyes and demeanour of a snake about to strike so he must be a _Shayatin_ made flesh. The deep voice bored into his brain, terrifying him even more with the words.

"Now, Berat Osman, perhaps you will be more forthcoming? Or does another of your brave fellow warriors need to die to convince you? Where. Is. She."

Confused for a moment by the sound of his name and frozen like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights of Ilya's attention the younger man could only open and close his mouth like a fish a few times as he tried to find his voice; the gun coughed for a fourth time and one of the other remaining group collapsed backwards, spraying blood, a hole in his chest where his heart once was.

"One more thing." The unnaturally calm voice continued as the barrel of the pistol swung back to the Turk. "You would be wise to assist, Berat, because if you do not, not only will you be accompanying my associates and I when we pay a visit to Bouverie Road, Stoke Newington but also, if necessary, to Yukarihasinli where I am sure we will be able to persuade your family members to convince you to help." There was absolute certainty at the Russian said smoothly, "This will not finish until you tell me where she is."

Osman's bowels had turned to ice-water at the sound of his home address and the room spun when this _Shayatin_ mentioned the village where he had been born and where his mother still lived.

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you! Please stop, _insh'allah_ , I will take you there."

Passing the incoming counter-terrorism police on the road less than a minute after leaving the factory, it took a little over half an hour to get to the site, an abandoned pyrotechnics factory near Dartford. _En route_ in one of the vans, the other having been returned to their depot with most of the mercenary crew inside, Ilya had received a very brief text from Harry.

 _"All over. Target terminated. Need to meet soon."_

That was one less thing to worry about, anyway. Now he just had to clean up the dregs and he could get back to Jean and Rosie.

 _Gammla Uppsala, Sweden. 12:58 GMT_

The last two hours had been a form of torture for Hope as she had wandered amongst the buildings and Iron Age burial mounds. The weather had held thus far, despite a few light showers, although it was chilly and overcast but the open horizons and fresh air she had yearned for were there. One benefit was the lack of tourists: outside, she'd had the place almost to herself, apart from one group of hardy Japanese visitors who were now long gone. A heavier shower an hour ago had driven her into the café where she had managed to force herself to swallow some soup for lunch but soon she was back outside, continuously checking her watch.

Now, she was once more atop the largest of the Royal Burial Mounds, hands buried in her pockets against the wind that was picking up and gazing out over the countryside at more showers that were sweeping towards her. The cold was at least giving her something else to think about apart from London. She stood there for over ten minutes, until another shower gusted towards her, spitting a fine sleet into her face; hunching her shoulders into her jacket and pulling her beanie further down over her ears and forehead she turned away, only to have the phone finally vibrate in her pocket. She couldn't speak after she'd swiped the screen, so relieved that she really wanted to double over and throw up, but his longed-for, molten chocolate tones filled her ear and immediately soothed her anxiety.

"It's done, my love. Qasim is dead, as is his crew, and I have identified my other target."

Her relief was suddenly tempered by his last words.

"Identified but not neutralised."

"No. Not yet. But soon. I need to meet Ilya to discuss the next step."

The sleet was getting heavier and colder so she started moving again, back towards the museum. The mention of the Russian's name reminded her that there were other things happening today.

"Do you know how his plan is going?"

"I haven't heard but he should be in the middle of it by now, if not almost finished. I will send him a text when we hang up." Hope crossed her fingers and wished, hard, for the other man's success, for the sake of Jean and Rosie. "Hope, there's something else. We lost Calum in the firefight. He was trying to distract them and, well, you can guess." That explained the raw edge to his voice and her soul wept for the young man, another one – this time something of a lost soul – gone too soon. There had been too much of that happening of late; she would honestly be glad to finally, irrevocably, cut the strings tying her to this world.

"My darling, I'm so sorry. I know the words mean little but you know…"

"Yes, I know."

Silence fell as she ran for the shelter of the building, hiding on the down-wind side for a moment to finish the call.

"I presume we can't meet up yet."

Her husband's voice was weary and full of regret.

"Not yet. With what I need to do I don't want you in the country. Just in case. I will get it done as soon as possible."

Hope leaned back and rested her head against the timber wall, watching the splotches of sleet being carried out over the roof above her.

"Okay. I'll keep going on my wanderings. I'll probably stay in Stockholm for a few days – there are things I want to see – and then make for Oslo, as planned. I've got to go inside now because I'm absolutely freezing."

"Very well. I'll call you later, once I've found somewhere to stay tonight. I love you."

"I love you, too. I'm so glad this is almost over…"

Wending his way among the backstreets where he knew CCTV was limited or non-existent, Harry was putting as much distance between him and Thames House as fast as he could, as he didn't trust Mace as far as he could kick him. When they terminated the call he stopped for a second, sagging against the nearest fence, as relief at the end of this first part of the operation combined with delayed shock and sorrow at the death of yet another of his people finally hit him. Calum hadn't deserved an end like that and he would forever regret that he had barely had time to stop and say a quiet goodbye but circumstances – always fucking circumstances! – had conspired against him, as usual. There would be a funeral so he hoped he would still be here to slip by, ghostly, silent, to pay proper respects. And for Erin, should Ilya's quest succeed. He wondered, briefly, if Calum had actually deliberately sacrificed himself – death by terrorist – to end the bleakness that his life had descended into after Ruth's death. He had certainly never been the same after that terrible time, none of them had, but for some reason it had diverted the younger man's life down a darker, more lonely and infinitely sadder path. Harry had done his best, as had Erin and Dimitri, and there were times when they thought things had turned around but those times were short and getting further apart.

He would never know the truth but he hoped his gut feeling was wrong on this. Pushing himself up again he noticed a bus passing by at the end of the street so started walking that way again, intent on catching the next one and seeing where he ended up. While waiting for the funerals, he had other business to attend to.

 _Abandoned Fireworks Factory, Dartford. 13:10_

For somewhere so close to the city it felt, and was, wild and remote. They hadn't actually moved her very far, not quite 45 minutes drive from where they had executed her and no doubt it had been a quicker trip in the depths of the night in question. The derelict buildings were part of an abandoned 19th century industrial complex not far from the river, now overgrown and rotting. Away from the access road, out among the worst of the semi-collapsed bunkers and among decades-old junk that the small group of four (Ilya, Diederick, Vadim and the handcuffed Turk) had carefully negotiated, they had tossed her into a pit half full of oily sludge and piled a few bits of corrugated iron on top as a cursory covering from prying eyes. Not that there seemed to have been any of the latter: even the graffiti was old and worn. She was face-down but he would have recognised the cloud of dark hair anywhere and a sword went through his heart. This was so unfair for both Jean and Rosie and for what the future should have been for them all, particularly for Erin herself. All ended on the whim of another sociopath with another self-centred agenda driven by a God-complex and another child's life blighted for the sake of a warped, perverted ideology.

That cold anger, burning like ice, overtook him for a moment, just as it had after listening to Elena reveal her true self, and like then he used pure force of will to contain and control it. There was no more he could do for Erin apart from advise the police so they could do what needed to be done quickly and they could retrieve her dignity and put her to rest. Had Harry still been in charge at Thames House the involvement of civil law enforcement would have been unnecessary but that was now in the past so, for Jean's sake, as well as for Rosie, he had no option. But first…

He had told Vadim and Diederick to pull the Turk away once they had uncovered Erin, allowing him to kneel and have a few moments alone with her; now, he rose to his feet and walked the few steps over to the small group. Indicating to his fellows to move back, he raked their prisoner up and down with that remote, yet terrifying, gaze. For a moment it seemed as though he was going to speak but instead he approached the captive at a steady pace. The other two Russians suddenly understood what was about to happen but stolidly kept their place. They had both fought enough of this sort of person to not care what happened to this one.

It was sudden, ruthless and efficient and Hope Johnson, had she been there, would have recognised the technique, having used it herself in East Timor many years ago, and approved the elegance of its application. Ilya stepped forward, as though about to walk past the Turk, and in the blink of an eye had kicked the other's foot out from under him while grabbing his head and giving it a sharp twist. There was a satisfying crack and the man fell, dead, to the ground, on the edge of the hole in which he had dumped Erin. Looking over at Diederick Ilya said quietly,

"Get rid of him. Not here. Ensure the body is never found." Taking out his pistol he wiped it thoroughly with a crisp linen handkerchief and handed it over. "Please dispose of this as well."

Du Plessy was quietly impressed at the calmness of the order, as he had been throughout this process. There had been many times in his decade of working for Ilya Gavrik that he had glimpsed the coldly dispassionate iron core that gave the man at least part of the reputation that he had but this afternoon was the first time he had seen the other part of that story, the smoothly implacable master spy, former military intelligence chief and special services soldier who had genuinely earned a chest full of medals over several decades on various front lines. Of course it was also an example of the same qualities that he brought to being a successful international businessman, ruthlessness being prime among those. Quietly taking the weapon he nodded and said,

"Yes, Sir. What will you be doing? Do you need any assistance?"

"Wait for me outside then drop me at the intersection. A vehicle to meet me there after that is all. I will be informing the police and then remaining to observe until they arrive."

"Are you sure, Sir?" Vadim cut in, worried and, if he admitted it, slightly shocked by what had just happened. "If the police see you—"

"They will not," Ilya interrupted gently but in the same unarguable tone. "I have spent forty years keeping out of sight when I wanted to, Vadim. The local bobbies will not see me."

He was as good as his word. He spent the time while the others were loading the Turk's body into the van with Erin, silently and desperately wishing that it hadn't come to this, before gingerly slipping some identification – a small, crumpled receipt that he had found at home during the week – into the pocket of her coat, fondly laying a hand on her hair for a moment and then standing up and walking away. Once he had been dropped back at the intersection he used his best cut-crystal accent, still absolutely flawless after many years of dormancy, and his encrypted, untraceable phone to call the local police station, report the finding of a body, provide the location and then hang up before they could ask any more questions. Then it was easy to stay out of sight but watchful: they had noticed a small, somewhat run-down trailer mounted snack van parked on the side of the entry road not far from the main road, closed up now for the weekend, the area overgrown, neglected and blowing with rubbish despite the neat farmhouse behind the trees on the far side of the road. It had taken him exactly fifteen seconds to pick the padlock; then he had made himself at home in the surprisingly spick and span interior and kept watch through a tiny gap at the edge of the front shutter.

It was only another five minutes before the first police car arrived; a further ten and there were two more, one of which was a SOCO van. His phone vibrated gently – the car was almost there – so he grabbed a couple of paper napkins to wipe the door on the way out and the lock after he had put it back and was ready to slip into the back seat as his vehicle cruised to an unobtrusive stop. By the time he was settled into it and was leaving the area an ambulance was sedately turning the corner that led to the scene. Now, he had to return home to Jean in time to be there for her when the phone call came but while he travelled he had time to reply to Harry's text, letting him know that the objective had been achieved.

Hope's Diary

The worst is over. Qasim and his crew are dead, Erin has been returned to her family – or will be soon, thanks to Ilya – and my beloved is still alive. However, although the thing is done it's not, apparently, dusted. He says his original objective is not complete: he has identified the problem but still needs to deal with it so we cannot yet meet. His is the easier row to hoe; I would not be in Jean's shoes now, nor Ilya's, for quids, although I suppose being able to finally have a funeral may at least bring some closure and perhaps allow the healing to start, although it's never completed, of course. So I will continue to wander; practice, I suspect, for what's likely to be our lives for some time yet, for I can't see that it'll be safe to return to this part of the world for a long time yet, until the current ruling class have crashed and burned, or ever, really, because of what he did in letting Qasim into the inner sanctum, something for which the Establishment will _never_ forgive him. So be it. I've felt stifled at work for the last twelve months; Harry for much, much longer so I think it will do us good to vanish into the wilds for a while, maybe permanently.

Jean's Diary

The police finally came to call this afternoon. I know it's Ilya's doing although he won't tell me how or what happened. It doesn't matter, at least we have her back to bury properly. They said they would confirm it's her using dental records and DNA, if required, but there is little doubt. We told Rosie and the wall she had been building crumbled into heartbreak again. It was devastating but it may be for the best, as long as we can keep her talking this time. She was heading down a path that was no good for any of us, locking herself away, so I will be more aware of the risk now and try to prevent that. I'm not sure when the funeral would be – it will depend on when she is released – but it is a necessary thing, for all of us. Then, and only then, will the first stage of the rest of our lives be complete.


	22. Chapter 22

22\. Wednesday 20 to Friday 22 May 2015

 _London, Wednesday 20_ _th_ _, 14:30_

"My chemists believe it is nasty," Ilya said sombrely as he handed the tiny envelope back to Harry, having picked it up earlier in the day, along with the results, from his laboratory at Camberley. "They have seen individual components before but not in this combination."

Harry took it and turned it over a few times, thankful that the analysis had come back so fast while noticing that the pill was no longer quite round.

"I see most of it is still intact. Thank you."

The Russian shrugged, elegant despite being casually dressed in jeans, a crisp shirt and a light jacket against the weather.

"We have cutting edge equipment at the laboratory so very little was needed for the analysis."

The two men were seated in a small café not very far from Jean's house, sharing a pot of tea, three days after last having met when Harry had handed over the tablet and they had brought each other up to date on what had happened at their respective ends. Erin's funeral had barely been mentioned: the police still retained her body and until it was released there was nothing else the family could do but plan her farewell so the subject fizzled out. Ilya had been interested, in an academic way, in finding out what was in the 'way out' pill while Harry had rather more practical plans. Now, the latter asked, fixing his friend with a penetrating gaze,

"Nasty in what way?"

The other took a couple of sheets of folded paper out of his inner pocket and handed them over.

"This is the chemical summary and brief conclusions but in essence they believe it is slowly lethal. Once they had analysed it they synthesised more and trialled it on lab rats. It was not a perfect copy but it still killed the rats, without fail, in under eight hours by massive internal haemorrhaging. Mortality was one hundred percent." They looked at each other, allowing that to sink in. Eventually the Russian added, "My senior chemist believes this is so sophisticated that it can only have come from a State entity."

Harry nodded, slowly.

"Yes. I believe it has. Porton Down, no doubt, unless we've taken to stealing such things from elsewhere."

Letting the conversation lapse they topped up their teacups and sat quietly for a moment, both lost in their thoughts. Finally Ilya asked,

"What next, Harry?"

"Next, I finish the job I started. I have been watching Geraldine Maltby, who is the only one who can have delivered this to me, and Malcolm has been covertly monitoring her communications and we have found out that she has invited her sister and niece to take a long weekend at her house on the coast – clearly the stress of last Saturday has been too much. I intend to return her gift to her, in either her food or drink."

Again, they gazed at each other for a long second before the deep voice murmured,

"Then this may be of help." Reaching into his inside pocket, Ilya extracted a tiny, flip top vial and handed it over. "I had thought that may be your decision so I took the liberty of bringing it. It will be more than sufficient to hold the tablet, should you wish to crush it."

Harry nodded, impressed but not surprised by the forethought, and tucked it away carefully.

"Thank you, Ilya."

"It was my pleasure. Is there anything else that I can do to help?"

He had been quietly hoping the Russian would say that.

"Do you have someone I can borrow as an assistant? I will need to follow the target to get close enough to drop this—" he waved the packet "— into her comestibles. I will be there but cannot risk being seen so having someone who can eavesdrop for me would solve a problem."

"Yes." Ilya sat back and stretched his long frame. "I will consult with my Head of Security to choose the best person for the task. Let us discuss the plan and I will organise the practicalities this afternoon."

 _Oslo, Norway, Friday 22_ _nd_ _, 10:50_

She had spent most of yesterday, after she had arrived in Oslo, at Bygdoy, quietly marvelling at the beauty and craftsmanship that had gone into the Viking's ships and this morning she had been at the art gallery when the text had advised her of the pickup details. Ilya had first been in touch yesterday, wanting to know her plans as he had something to get to her. Hope had been on the train from Goteborg to Oslo at the time so hadn't known exactly where she would stay but could guarantee that she would be in the city for a day or two, which was enough. Now, she was entering the Vigeland Sculpture Park for the drop.

Large statues of bronze, granite and cast iron seemed to tower overhead as she joined the rest of the crowds walking down the Bridge, past the Fountain to the Monolith in the centre of the installation. Stopping at the bottom of the steps she gazed up at the towering structure in the centre, composed of intertwined, sinuous, bodies carved straight out of the granite, and marvelled at the amount of work involved, before transferring her attention to the groups of statues that fanned out between the steps. More organic shapes carved from inorganic stone, looking almost alive, each different as she worked her way to the top of the stairs. Just as she got to the top and looked up at Monolith again a young man came jogging around from the other side and cannoned into her. With a quick, breathless,

" _Beklager,"_ he continued to dash down the steps she had just come up and disappeared into and beyond a group of teenagers almost before Hope had even realised that he had managed to thrust a small packet into her hands.

 _Very nicely done,_ she thought, as she tucked the packet into her inside coat pocket and glanced down at her park plan to work out where the café was so she could sit down and see what it was about.

It turned out to be an air ticket to Reykjavik for first thing in the morning, in a name she didn't recognise until she opened the Swiss passport that was also in the pack and saw her own face staring back at her under a name that bore no resemblance to anything she had ever seen before. There was a note, explaining that her husband would meet her in Iceland some time over the next few days and that they were booked into a discrete boutique hotel for two weeks, all expenses paid, to give them a chance to sort out their plans. There was also a piece of plastic and bank account details in the new name; noting the balance she whistled silently and sent a vote of thanks to the Russian. Ever pragmatic, she knew they wouldn't rely on the money but having access to something apart from eroding their own savings would be a vast help in the immediate future. The final part of the package – another two passports – really made her raise her eyebrows in surprise before she allowed herself an appreciative little grin and internal chuckle. She wasn't sure what Harry was going to say when he saw them but she admired the Russian's cheek. Finishing her coffee Hope tucked the paperwork away and left the building, intent on seeing what was left of the city over the rest of the day. She doubted she, or they, would be back any time soon.

Ilya's Journal

Harry's plans are as I suspected and I am very happy to assist. Although we have terminated Qasim's unpleasant little group there is still the mopping up of the penultimate causal factor to conclude. He has named the person as the current Deputy DG and I see no reason to disbelieve him so we will continue to work together to eliminate the problem. Of course, there is the ultimate cause – the American who would have initially presented the plan to the DDG – but Harry seems disinclined to follow that up as he sees the problem as being her fault for accepting the approach. He is correct to an extent and he also needs to get out of the country before much longer so I believe I will continue to follow up on what is required as I am taking the personal view: the DDG may have accepted the approach but the American started it so it is at his door that I place the ultimate responsibility for Erin's death. I will see to it that, firstly, the man is forced out of this country and, in the long run, totally ruined.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: this chapter and the epilogue is the end of this story. I would like to thank all of my readers and reviewers, in particular my two most faithful ones, BatteredPen and Gregoriana. To you goes my greatest appreciation and humblest thanks for your continued feedback throughout this story. Your feedback means more than I can ever say. AC.**

23\. Saturday 23/Sunday 24 May 2015.

 _Pub in Clacton-on-Sea, 12:15, Saturday 23_ _rd_

Geraldine Maltby, her younger sister and niece had been happily settled at their table on the deck of the pub, not far from the Pier, for the past quarter hour, perusing the menu. They had spent the morning in town, mostly on the pier itself, and now the hungry child had demanded lunch so here they were, enjoying the weak sunshine whilst ordering their lunch, totally oblivious to the young dark-haired girl sitting at the table next to them, also checking the menu, and the older, fair man sitting inside, watching them through the window from another table that also had a view of the serving hatch from the kitchen while nursing a beer. Eventually, they were ready to order: fish and chips for the child, chicken and salad for her mother and rib of beef with vegetables for the aunt, along with a round of soft drinks.

As the waitress left their table the dark-haired girl followed her inside and dropped a hastily scribbled note in front of Harry as she passed: the table number and the target's meal. Harry absorbed the information, crushed the note and dropped it in his pocket and then decided Geraldine had made a good choice for her meal and ordered the same thing when the same waitress appeared at his side a moment later. Now, all they had to do was wait the approximately 12 minutes it was currently taking for meals to be delivered. The service in the place was surprisingly efficient and the lunchtime crowds were only just starting to build up so he presumed the timing would be about right. He noticed Mina, Ilya's young German Army veteran, take up her station close to the kitchen door as agreed; they met each other's eyes for a moment, both satisfied with events so far, and then returned to their watchful quietness.

With nothing more to do for the moment Harry allowed part of his mind to review the past few days. In the immediate aftermath of the previous Saturday he had ridden the buses and the trains for several hours before returning to the area of his accommodation, where, instead of going back to his room, he walked for a few hours more, unwilling to be indoors until the adrenaline had worn off, the subsequent tendency to depression had been overcome and he had felt ready to face the four walls of a closed room. A long conversation with his wife had, as always, settled and helped him focus on what needed to be done next. Then, it had mostly been monitoring Geraldine Maltby. Otherwise, he had managed to catch up with Catherine, currently home with Aron, her husband, on a break from filming their latest documentary on deep ocean pollution, to quietly tell her what he could of what had happened, where he would be going next and asking her to empty his flat and put everything in storage for him. By the end of it she was ashen, with tears in her dark eyes, but she wasn't completely surprised that it had come to this: she had, after all, been half expecting something like this for years. He had explained some preliminary contact methods and had then, fearful of exposing her to the shadowy forces he knew so well, had left, leaving her oddly bereft. Yes, with the amount she and Aron travelled, they would be able to catch up reasonably often but it wouldn't be the same, he wouldn't be _home_ any more.

Graham had been more difficult to catch, being in the field doing studies around the reefs of Micronesia as part of his doctoral studies with the University of Hawaii at Manoa. However, persistence paid off and he had finally got hold of his son very early this morning. Graham had changed much over the past couple of years, having matured and evolved, along with his academic career and a steady personal relationship, into a more caring, open man, to the extent that he was beginning to understand his father much more and had even begun to forgive him. As a result the conversation, although short, went much more smoothly and openly than Harry had expected. So he had had a couple of wins during the week but the rest was nowhere near it.

That included yesterday morning, the low point of the past few days: Calum's funeral. Very quiet and restricted to family only, Harry had kept well and truly in the shadows at a far distance, keeping out of view of not only the mourners but any other watchers, his heart breaking while he silently saluted the young man's service. He had that, knowledge of the truth; the Reed family knew nothing of it, never would, and that was the true devastation for them. Jean at least knew why her daughter was dead, even if she didn't know the details of the operation from which it had come. However, one truth that she would never find out was exactly how and where Erin had been found, or in what state. Ilya hadn't said much about that to Harry but he hadn't needed to…

Movement near the kitchen caught his eye where the meals in question were being placed on the servery shelf. Mina glanced towards him and almost imperceptibly nodded. It was time.

He got up from his table and moved swiftly towards the side entrance on the far side of the kitchen as the waitress picked up the meals, balancing the three plates with professional ease. As Harry reached her, uncapped vial in hand, Mina also suddenly got up and almost cannoned into the waitress, causing the latter to swerve out of the way towards Harry and utter a sharp,

"Watch where you're going!" to the young woman, who began to apologise profusely in German. In the confusion Harry murmured a quiet,

"Excuse me," and held out a steadying hand on the waitress' upper arm for a second as, in one swift motion, he tipped the finely ground tablet over the creamy mushroom sauce on the beef and the pile of colcannon that accompanied it. It vanished from sight almost immediately, as did he after the waitress shook him off with barely civil thanks and continued on her way with another glare at the German. The pair left behind glanced at each other again and moved to their next stations, Harry to depart out the side entrance and Mina to take his place keeping an eye on the target.

Half an hour later Mina found him at the end of the pier, staring out to sea. She stopped next to him for long enough to say,

"It is done. The woman has a healthy appetite."

Without looking at her he murmured,

"Excellent news. Thank you for your assistance."

"My pleasure."

She was gone before he realised it, leaving him to his musings as the waves, endless and eternal, rolled in from the horizon. He felt nothing yet; that would be for later, after he had visited Geraldine for one last time. For now, he had about four hours to fill and the beach, not very crowded, looked appealing. He could certainly do with the walk after that lunch…

 _London, 18:35_

The news Will had brought hadn't been a surprise. If anything, Harry was surprised that it had taken this long for his former employers to start to crack down on him. It had been out of character for Mace to stand up to Qasim and his gun the way he had in that locked room – Harry would give the man credit for that – and that had continued with him letting Harry walk free but presumably the adrenaline had worn off by now because putting Ruth's grave under surveillance was exactly the sort of low act that was much more like him. It hurt but he had no option but to accept it, at least for the moment; Mace wouldn't last forever and they would soon get fed up with monitoring a grave. In any case, he would take it as a challenge to sneak back in under the radar in a year or two and visit, if only to give Thames House the metaphorical bird.

Leaving the young man in the shadows of Blackfriar's Bridge where they'd met and having finally dropped his hire car off at a nearby depot when he'd arrived in the city half an hour ago, Harry trudged, head down, along Bankside towards Southwark Cathedral where he had agreed to meet Ilya. He had called the Russian after leaving Geraldine Maltby's house, content that she would not see tomorrow, and they had spoken briefly about what was next, after which Harry had acquiesced to the request to meet near the Cathedral; there was nothing left for him here now and he would be quite happy to get out as soon as possible. To say nothing of how desperately he needed Hope. He had felt nothing much at all, only a mild satisfaction, during his discussion with Maltby; now, he was drained completely of anything that resembled emotions apart from that one desire to join his wife and turn his back on everything that had been his life for the past forty years. Ilya obviously had a plan and right now Harry didn't care what that was, as long as it got him out of this place.

Lost in his thoughts, the replica of Sir Francis Drake's ship, the Golden Hind, surprisingly tiny considering its place in history and tucked away in its obscure dock, seemed to appear out of nowhere, signalling that he was almost at his destination. Lifting his eyes the looming presence of the Gothic Cathedral itself confirmed that thought. Glancing at his watch he realised that the building was long-closed – it was nearly seven – so that option to kill time was gone. Instead, he walked through a paved area under some large trees towards the river, taking a seat on a stone bench at the far end and waited.

He had barely settled when the phone vibrated with an incoming message: Ilya wanting to know where he was. He tapped out his answer and the response was a simple,

"Behind you on Montague Close. Two minutes."

The Russian was as good as his word, his black Lexus idling to a stop by the curb in one minute and fifty seconds. As Harry approached the front passenger window rolled down and the deep voice said,

"It is just us, Harry. Get in."

For a moment he was hit with a strong sense of _deja-vu_ , of another time when he had been speaking to Ilya through an open car window, only then it had been a Mercedes. They had been talking about Martha Forde and it had been one of the earliest indications that he'd had that there might be more to Ilya than just the single-minded KGB officer that he thought he knew. Erin had been there as well but that had been before the world had shattered and remade itself into something completely topsy-turvy, where two old sworn enemies were now best friends, the women they were now intent on spending their lives with bore no resemblance to those that came before, Harry had opened up the inner sanctum of Section D to its enemies in order to save it and was now going into exile while Ilya was no longer the globe-trotting international businessman and politician, preferring to stay at home with family rather than press the flesh, thereby returning much more to the man he actually was, rather than the one he had become to please Elena Platonovna. And Erin, along with far too many others, was gone.

He blinked to clear the sensation and got into the front seat next to the Russian.

"Is there anything you need to pick up before we leave, Harry?"

"No. I have wallet, phone and passports. I can live in these clothes for one more day and anything else I had was dumped when I left my accommodation this morning."

"Very well. You can relax; we have a forty five minute drive ahead of us."

They fell into a comfortable silence for the first fifteen minutes, as the Russian navigated them out of the city towards the north-east. Soft orchestral music played on the excellent sound system – something spare and Scandinavian, maybe Sibelius, Harry thought – lulling them both into at least a degree of repose. He didn't realise how very tired he was; glancing sideways for a moment, he recognised that Ilya was also running on empty and that it was only pure bloody-mindedness keeping both of them going. They wouldn't need it for much longer, though. His phone vibrated with an incoming text. Two words, from Malcolm.

"It's over."

Sighing, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and straightened up a little in the leather seat.

"News?" Ilya enquired mildly, glad of a diversion from his thoughts which were continuously circling around the impossible task of how he could make life better for Jean and Rosie.

"Just Malcolm. He has been monitoring various comms and news has just come through that the Deputy Director General has passed away suddenly."

"How unfortunate," the other man responded, _sotto voce_ and as dry as the desert wind.

"Indeed. But not my problem." As he said it Harry felt a weight begin to lift from his soul: it was, in fact and for the first time in decades, not his problem, would never be his problem again, and he found that he enjoyed the prospect. The past few years had become a trial and he hadn't even realised it until it was over. "What is the plan, Ilya?"

"We are _en-route_ to Stapleford aerodrome where I have a helicopter going to Aberdeen, taking one of my technical specialists and some vital spare parts for the control systems on one of our oil rigs in the North Sea. You will be going along for the ride. Once in Aberdeen you will all be transferring to another chopper, one of our regular transport fleet, that will be going to the rig and then on to their maintenance facility in Norway for its regular inspection. Again, you will be on board. My technical expert and the spares will be dropped off at the rig and you will be the remaining passenger for the rest of the trip." He stopped and glanced across at the Englishman who was paying close attention despite looking like he was on his last legs. "It will be early morning by the time you arrive in Bergen, Harry, so I have booked you into a hotel for a few hours before the next morning's flight to Oslo where you have a connection to Reykjavik and Hope, who is already there. I have all the paperwork to give you once we have arrived at Stapleford."

Somewhat startled by the scope of the planning and logistics involved, Harry could think of little to say, apart from a quiet,

"Thank you. I will never be able to repay you for all your help."

"No repayment required. You revealed the depth and extent of the lie that was my previous life and that is beyond monetary value."

The conversation lapsed again and the car continued to purr into the slowly darkening twilight. There wasn't really a lot more to talk about by this stage. Erin's funeral was on Monday but neither felt like discussing that and even if he had still been in the country Harry wouldn't have dared even consider: like revisiting Ruth's grave, it would be expected and would be suicide. Instead, they both took comfort in sharing quiet time in a reasonably generic vehicle with one of the few other people on the planet whom they could trust.

In what seemed like next to no time they were pulling into the relatively small private airfield and the vehicle was waved through to airside, pulling up next to a Eurocopter EC145 in which the pilot was just firing up the engines. They exited the vehicle and remained clear as the rotors started to turn; in the increasing noise and down-draught Ilya looked at the Englishman and said,

"I cannot come with you to see you safe, as I would wish, Harry. Jean and Rosie..."

Harry shook his head.

"You've done enough, Ilya, more than enough. And you're needed here, I would expect nothing else." They gazed at each other for a moment, two old, shattered men who were facing futures they would never have expected and were wondering where they would end up. "On Monday…" He couldn't finish but he didn't need to; Ilya nodded, sharply.

"I will see her farewelled properly."

"Thank you."

The pilot gestured and Ilya turned Harry to face the machine.

"You must go." Extracting an envelope from his inside pocket he handed it over. "The tickets are there, along with your alternate identity papers, to take you to meet Hope." The rotors on the aircraft began to speed up. "It's time, Harry."

Humbled, the Englishman took what was proffered, wondering briefly how on Earth the world had changed so much that the man whom he had spent decades considering his greatest enemy had turned into his greatest friend and was now, in reality, giving him a future to live.

"I really have no words, Ilya—"

"You do not have to – I meant what I said earlier, in the car, Harry. Go, and live your new life as I must live mine."

They shook hands, firmly, and both suddenly found that the wind being whipped up by the rotor blades was making their eyes water. It must have been that, surely…

"I would like to think that we will see each other again, somewhere…"

"We will. At some point and not here, but we will. Hope has another set of identities for you both which may facilitate that, and other travels, along with encrypted contact details that we can use. The identities are Russian and I can guarantee that they will not be questioned."

Despite everything, genuine smiles lit up both faces for a moment as they enjoyed the slightly delicious irony of a former KGB Colonel organising a safe Russian identity for the former MI6 operative who had been his nemesis for so long.

"Well in that case it's a certainty. We will let you know once we're safely away and take it from there."

With that they shook again and Harry dashed into the chopper, ducking his head as he got within rotor range before vanishing inside, the door thunking firmly into place behind him. A few moments later the whine of the engine increased to full throttle and the characteristic _whump-whump_ of the blades at full rotation began. Harry's face appeared briefly and his hand gave a half wave, half salute as the machine suddenly lifted from the surface, dipped a little bow with its nose and was gone. Ilya watched until the Eurocopter was out of sight before returning to his car to head back to town. He had no idea how either of them would fare – Harry in exile, probably for the rest of his life, and he himself suddenly returning to parent-hood in a way he would never have wished on anyone – but he knew they would both make the best of it. There was, after all, no other option.

 _Reykjavik, Iceland, Sunday 24_ _th_ _May 2015._

To Harry's total lack of surprise, his late morning flight to Reykjavik was delayed due to the aircraft arriving late from it previous point of departure. Then, also as suspected (as he was extremely keen to get to Iceland and officially end this phase of his life) they copped headwinds most of the way once they had departed Oslo. All that didn't matter now, though; they were on descent into Keflavik airport and he would be reunited with his beloved wife within the hour.

He would be glad to see the back of travel, even if it was only for a week or two; he felt like he'd been running for weeks now, ever since the benighted day that Geraldine Maltby had launched her attempt to bring down her own security service. The last twenty four hours had hopefully seen the peak of the madness: the better part of an hour to the aerodrome last night, followed by two and a half hours in the Eurocopter to Aberdeen, a quick, no-questions-asked, switch to a Bristow Sikorsky S92 for the 210 nautical mile, one hour twenty five minute flight to the Kaspgaz oil rig followed by the final short forty minute hop to Bergen. All that had meant that it had been getting on for two in the morning, local time, by the time he had finally hit the sack in his very comfortable and convenient hotel located, fortunately, at the airport.

That had been a boon in more ways than one: completely exhausted, he had slept like a log for almost five hours until the alarm had gone off. Making his 8:00am flight to Oslo by the skin of his teeth he had then had a chance to do a bit more snoozing as he ended up waiting for this flight to finally leave, an hour after it had been scheduled. Ilya's package had remained unopened until Harry had hauled himself out of bed and even then it had only been to pull out his flight details, the rest had waited until he was downing a cup of coffee in the main concourse in Oslo: a Swiss passport, his flight details to Reykjavik and information with a card giving access to bank account. The accompanying note at least made him crack a wry smile

 _The account is for you to use or not, as you wish. It will be automatically topped up once it falls below a certain level but neither I nor any of my employees will see any of the statements – there are no strings attached. Consider it as thanks for dealing with Qasim._ He could hear Ilya's dry voice, with its undertone of humour once you knew how to recognise it, in the final words. _Please, Harry, do not argue about accepting this. I have more money than I will ever need so allow me to do something useful with a small part of it._

And so he, like Hope, had accepted, not least because he was just about out of the cash reserve that he had taken from their account before Hope had closed them all. Thirty years ago he would never have believed that Ilya Gavrik either had a heart or was a thoughtful man; now, after four years of increasingly close friendship, he knew better. When he chose to think about it, the act wasn't a surprise: unlike his own impulsiveness that he knew made him something of a loose cannong, albeit a focussed one, Ilya's stock in trade had always been meticulous forethought and preparation. This, for him, was no different.

The pressure change in his ears told him they were getting low and a glance out the window confirmed it. Outside, he could see black sandy beaches being lapped by grey waves; so, this was Iceland. Before settling in for the last part of the journey he checked the last message from Hope one more time; keeping up protocol to the very last she had just written,

"Hallgrimskirkja, 13:00 local."

He'd had to look up what she meant: an enormous, modern church built on top of a hill in the capital that looked for all the world like giant organ pipes. Public, open space with multiple exits it would be as good as anywhere, particularly in the current temperatures. At least they would be inside and the delayed flight had done him another favour as it would be about that time once he found the place so he wouldn't have to be waiting about for too long.

In the end there was no waiting at all. When the taxi dropped him off in the square outside the front of the church – although 'church' seemed too humble a term for the magnificence of the white edifice towering above him – he stopped for a moment to admire the impressive frontage and the bronze statue of Leifur Eiriksson on its granite pedestal in front of it before making his way through the large entrance doors and into the nave. At first he was surprised by how light and airy it was inside: no stained glass, heavy carvings or other overt signs of religion, it was all timber, glass, soaring slender columns and indoor greenery and was quite spectacular but after the first glance around he was only interested in looking at one subject and that was his wife.

A door banging closed behind an older couple leaving the building drew his attention for a moment and the silence afterwards echoed, confirming there appeared to be no-one else inside for the moment. Slowly walking up the centre of the nave and scanning methodically, the slightest worm of fear wriggled in his heart as he started to worry until, half way up, he noticed someone sitting at the far end of one of the pews at the front, in the right hand aisle, someone wrapped in a pale grey, puffy winter jacket and with a beanie pulled down over their ears.

Over _her_ ears, to be precise; although she had been tracking his flight and knew it was late she had still been in the church for almost half an hour, desperate to see him again. Now, hearing the slightest squeak of a shoe against the hard floor, her heart leapt in her chest: everyone else who had been and gone had done so with the normal level of noise so this time it had to be Harry. Standing up and turning towards the sound, their eyes met across half the length of the building, burning into each other's souls. At the same moment both began to smile, Hope with her slow, sideways effort that always melted his heart and Harry with his sudden, sunny brightness that lit up her soul. Moments later they were in each other's arms for the first time in what felt like forever, indulging in a long, deeply loving and desperately relieved kiss.

Finally, echoing a morning some years before in Norfolk, they gazed at each other.

"Hello," he said softly.

"Hello," she answered equally softly and they kissed again then lingered in the embrace, breathing in each other's scent and relaxing by degrees with each passing moment. Finally they pulled apart slightly and she continued with a smile, "Well, here we are."

"Indeed," he agreed, "Here we are. In a church in Iceland, of all places. The question is: what next?"

Resting a hand against his cheek she gazed deeply into his amber eyes, noting how worn he looked, and responded honestly,

"What's next is that we finally, for the first time in our adult lives, are truly the masters of our own destiny."

A haunted, or hunted, expression crossed his face before he kissed her palm and replied,

"Are we? Really? We've been driven to this point by politics, the bloody-mindedness of the Establishment and my actions, not necessarily in that order—"

"But here we are anyway," she cut him off gently but firmly before he began to spiral down that rabbit-hole again. "Nothing in the past can be changed, nothing in the future can be known but we can certainly recognise the pathways that brought us here for what they have done to and for us and enjoy the present for what it is. And is not. And even dare look at the bright side, if not of life then of the moment, for the moment is all that we have."

"I know," he murmured with a sigh, "It just might take me a while to get used to it. Freedom. Let alone work out what we're going to do with it."

She quirked an eyebrow.

"Right now, we're going to have a good rest, courtesy of Ilya, and just enjoy the prospect: no plans, no expectations, free as birds to go where the wind, or the fancy, takes us. We've made it, my love, they haven't broken us and now they never will." That slightly subversive grin that always made his heart sing because it usually presaged some sort of unexpected fun appeared; leaning into him she whispered conspiratorially,

"Our favourite Scottish band has a song for our current reality, you know."

Harry frowned for a moment, trying to think of whatever Runrig songs he could remember in his present state of mind but without much luck. Shrugging, he said,

"I'm sure they do but I can't immediately think of one so you'll have to enlighten me."

Glancing around to make sure the building was still empty, she pulled on his hand and, as they began to walk back down the nave, started to quietly sing. _That had been a surprise when he had first come across her talent way back on his first visit to Canberra: he could hold a tune but Hope could genuinely sing. And not just sing, actually perform, as capable as belting out heavy metal as she was lyrically sweeping through an operatic aria._

Now he heard it, he knew the song straight away. One of their favourites, as it happened; he really should have remembered…

' _Like shadows on the wall_

 _you come and you go_

 _through the streets and the rain that falls down on our sin._

 _No more good-byes,_

 _forever this way,_

 _whenever the greatest flame in the world starts burning._

 _This is our life and our time and nothing is ever going to break us,_

 _now we're on our own._

 _Always in your eyes_

 _a waking of souls._

 _We gaze out on the road that brought us up to this place._

 _The signposts never change,_

 _We'll go where they lead._

 _Whenever the day to break us comes we'll not give in._

 _This is our life and our time and nothing is ever going to break us_

 _now we're on our own._

 _This is our place in our lives and no-one can ever change this moment,_

 _Or pull this mountain to the ground…_

Outside, it was chilly but they didn't feel it; the sun was shining, the sky was clear and blue and both the city of Reykjavik and a world of possibilities spread out before them. They were on their way.

 _The Greatest Flame_

Calum Macdonald, Rory Macdonald

 **Epilogue. June, 2018.**

Oliver Mace didn't outlast Geraldine Maltby for very long. The government, unimpressed by the whole saga, saw to a clean sweep of the upper echelons of MI5 and Mace was in the firing line early, although they allowed him to keep his pension in return for falling on his sword.

Brontee Sorenson only returned to work with the CIA briefly after the birth of her son, whose second name, James, was a salute to the Deputy Director she had worked for so briefly yet who had, in the end, had a major influence on her life. She had worked for a company called Cambridge Analytica for over a year until she had uncovered dealings she didn't approve of and pulled the pin, shortly before another employee blew the whistle on them for the same reason. Recently, she returned from maternity leave after the arrival of her second son to her work with a medium-sized trans-Atlantic security run by a married couple who were formerly MI5 (him) and CIA (her).

D'wane Brandon, also disillusioned with the CIA after the events involving Ilya Gavrik and then the attempted take-over of British intelligence using Qasim as a catalyst, is currently working out a probationary period with Malcolm Wynne-Jones at Caledfwich Services.

Vadim Danilov was promoted to head up the Kaspgaz security section after Diederick du Plessy was invited by Ilya to take over the running of the military high-tech division of the company. Their primary focus has, of late, changed, from offensive weapons to the use of their drones, in particular, for humanitarian and rescue work in extreme conditions.

Tallulah Zanon is happily retired with her husband to a small property in rural Herefordshire, where she spends most of her time with either her cows or her grandchildren and doesn't miss her previous line of work at all.

Ilya has largely retired from the day to day running of his companies while Jean has retired from University and her clinical work, although she does still do volunteer work with domestic violence shelters. They both prefer to spend their time focussing on their relationship, Rosie and Sasha. The latter was recently released from prison and almost immediately moved to Vietnam to put his agronomy qualifications to work.

Harris Higham, the shadowy figure who had set in motion the attempted CIA take-over of MI5, spent the following two years in a rapid downward spiral where everything he touched seemed to collapse to dust. When last seen he was entering the US prison system for a very long period for the embezzlement of a large amount of money, a charge that he maintains his innocence over. Ilya was satisfied with the result but he is still not finished with the man he blames for Erin's death; whilst ever he draws breath, Higham will suffer.

Erin's funeral was a very quiet affair in a cemetery not far from where Calum Reed was buried. Rosie does not yet cope very well with visiting her grave, although the return of Dimitri Levendis from his covert operation in Syria and Iraq, six months after Erin's death, has helped. He arrived, totally devastated, on the doorstep in Stamford Brook one evening and has remained with the family, maintaining his position as Rosie's adopted dad, ever since. He, along with her grand-parents, continues to encourage her talent in dance.

Harry and Hope drifted, catching up in person with family and friends occasionally, and spending almost twelve months living in a moderately priced hotel on the beach in southern Sri Lanka. They considered staying there but neither are getting any younger and, in view of a likely descent into medical necessity at some point, they have fetched up again on the shores of Australia. Protected by Ilian Grant, the head of ASIO, and her wife, Megan Tamuza, a Justice of the Supreme Court of Australia, they continue to drift, looking for somewhere to finally drop anchor.


End file.
